


The Sunkissed Rose

by Hellhound (Lycaenion), Spiderheart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Canon Disabled Character, Enemas (mentioned), F/M, Fix-It, Foreknowledge, Happy Sex, M/M, Mix of Show and Book Canon, Modern Character in Westeros, Multi, Oberyn Martell Lives, Other Fandoms Not Mentioned in Tags, Prostate Milking, Shapeshifting, other fandoms dragooned in as necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycaenion/pseuds/Hellhound, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart
Summary: Originally an RP. Started out as just playing with Willas and Oberyn, then quickly became an entire AU. Fuchsia has seen the show and has Opinions, which are something special when combined with magic. Westeros won't know what hit it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Lark's Nest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19054390) by [Spiderheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart). 
  * Inspired by [The Queen of Roses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072543) by [Spiderheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart). 



Willas would not take no for an answer, not after the raven from Lord Tyrion, saying that he had devised of a chair that the sitter could, with enough arm strength, push himself, and it was waiting at the capital. So, he travelled—sidesaddle—with the rest of his family. If Lady Olenna could make the trip, so too could Willas. She supported him, which meant that he was there.

The chair was marvellous. Sitting wasn't at all uncomfortable, the pain being mainly round and about Willas' leg from the thigh-break down, and Willas loved the wheels, which were tilted inward at the top, and the rims fitted with a curved bar perfect for grabbing, and Willas could push about by himself. Unlike the Dornish chair Oberyn had gifted him, this chair had no way for anyone else to push. Willas felt better for that, felt more like a man, though he was shorter than others, of course.

He was independent again, Willas adored this most, and hied himself all about King's landing—at least, where the mud was not too bad. Still, he devised a way for a horse to hitch, with Tyrion's help, and had his own personal little carriage, just himself and a small pony. He went somewhere he had always wanted to go alone: A pillow-house.

He got up very early, arrived at first light—just exactly as Oberyn was arriving the same place. Willas saw the prince before being seen, himself, and so it was upon him to speak; and he did, smiling.

'Oberyn?'

The prince's hands stilled on his sandsteed's tack, and he turned his head sharply, too surprised to smile yet. _'Willas?'_

He had come to Highgarden but rarely, in the years following the disastrous tourney (though one of those trips had resulted in Tyene's conception). Lord Mace both resented and feared him, not knowing what to do with either Oberyn or himself, convinced there was some thinly veiled insult in the Red Viper paying court to the knight he had unmade. Oberyn, for his part, contented himself with watching Mace squirm — the amusement, paltry as it was, had kept him from doing anything more drastic. It had _not_ kept him from telling the Lord of Highgarden that, if he was so incensed at the purported "attack," he was more than welcome to challenge Oberyn to a duel.

Mace had left him alone after that.

Even through letters, Willas' friendship had always been a much-needed anchor for Oberyn, a reminder there was something more in the world to live for than vengeance. But he had felt that he had to put that aside, lock it safely in his heart where it could not be used to hurt him or Willas. Before leaving, he had sent to Highgarden only a single line — _I am for King's Landing, to ensure Lord Tywin pays his debts._

He had harboured vague thoughts of visiting again once it was all done, but that was an uncertain thing he feared to examine too closely — a world in which Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch and Tywin Lannister were all rotting in their well-deserved graves seemed almost impossible, for all that he wanted it so dearly. Better to put all those thoughts of sun and roses aside while he did his work in this red charnel pit.

But here Willas was, beaming like the morning.

Oberyn hadn't expected that.

Willas was not all golden flowers and dewkissed smile, though he rarely showed that side of himself. He was Just, and that came with a certain temper, one that flared at Unfairness, and Cruelty, and Wickedness. Willas had always said his prayers every Maidensday, and had asked the Warrior and the Stranger to help him aid Oberyn, whatever way that may be. He had ever been one to ask the gods for _guidance_ , ever one to take whatever gifts, though they may not make sense to Willas at the time.

The gods had seen fit to send him a stray raven, one windswept by an Eastern storm, and the message was from a merchant in the Free Cities, one who was speaking of something strange. Willas had struck up correspondence with him, and now carried, hidden in a locked secret compartment in the seat of his chair, a gift for Oberyn—to use on his enemies.

'Come kiss me,' he said, feeling bold, though his cheeks flushed just a little at it. Still, he kept his gaze on Oberyn steady. His eyes were as silver-green as the sea on a cloudy day, and caught some stray beam of morning light from a window, seeming to gleam in the dimness of the stable.

'Is that how you always mean to greet me?' Oberyn patted the sandsteed's nose, and she snorted at him, breath ruffling his dark hair. 'I can't say as I mind it.' He crossed the few steps to Willas, walking slowly, and sank down on his knees before Willas' chair, uncaring of the straw and dust on his fine clothes. (It was widely said that the Prince of Dorne knelt for no man. It was widely wrong.)

Reaching up, he cupped Willas' face in his hands, smiling at him. 'Have you been kissing many other boys? I would hate for those lips to have lain fallow.' A flowery sentiment, perhaps, but Willas drew those sorts of things out of him; many of the poems he had written had been to the eldest Tyrell, whether they had been sent to him or not.

Willas smiled at him, long lashes fluttering as the pad of Oberyn's thumb brushed feather-light across his lips. 'Shut up,' he whispered, 'and kiss me.' He leaned forward, and closed the distance between them.

This time, he led the kiss much more strongly, pale hands sliding through Oberyn's star-streaked black waves, clutching at him, pulling him in as surely as did the Merling he resembled, with his sea-green eyes and luminous-pale skin that could never tan, only burn, and his long dark hair, many tiny braids hidden in the curls, for his hands were always busy braiding something.

And Oberyn surrendered, leaning in to Willas, encouragement in every press and slide of lips, breathing in the warmth of him. As he had said in that tent all those years ago, it was only fair, in the interest of making reparations, that Willas could do whatever he liked with him...

He obeyed the order to be silent for an entire two minutes — it helped that his tongue was otherwise occupied. At last he said, his voice husky in WIllas' ear, 'I'll gladly fuck you in the stables if that is your desire, but I would as soon claim a bed for us in there.' And perhaps someone to join them in it, but only if Willas were interested, and even then not for a while yet. He wanted them to have some time all to themselves, for there would be precious little of it to come.

 _Though, it may distract everyone in the Red Keep if I am busy fucking the former heir to Highgarden…_ Oberyn did not particularly relish the idea of it becoming common gossip, much as he traded on his reputation, but he couldn't deny it was a tantalising counter to Lord Mace having become another one of Tywin's toadies. _Your daughter may be queen, but your eldest is sworn to House Nymeros Martell._

Willas' body thrilled, his cock woke from a years-long slumber, at Oberyn's friendly growl in his ear. 'No,' he said, high on his own daring, 'not here. In there, where everyone might see, might know, might talk.'

The thing about being the second son was that you could do whatever you wanted; and Willas had never really... dared. But he'd met Tyrion, had offered him a bottle of the finest Arbor fortified wine, and had heard so many stories he had been... perhaps, somewhat _inspired...._

Oberyn nipped at his earlobe, feeling how Willas' posture changed in that particular way only lust could inspire. He'd had no shortage of lovers who'd been eager to claim they'd bedded the Red Viper of Dorne — the number only increased as he got older and more infamous, and he'd had to weed out the ones who were more interested in the notoriety than actually enjoying themselves — but he had not thought Willas to be one of them.

Still, it was hardly an unpleasant surprise. 'In that case,' he said, 'I intend to make you scream.'

Willas visibly shivered, and a keen rose in his throat, at how aroused he was, how his cock complained, even though he only ever wore loose trews, now, because they were easier to get on. 'Now,' he said, having to swallow hard, because he was _salivating_ —and he should, he was a starving man being presented with his only true meal. He forced himself to settle back, even though all he wanted was to be carried like a bride into a bed.

He put his hands on the wheels. 'Come on,' he said, almost panting, and wheeled himself out of the stable. He'd chosen this one not only because it was the best and only pillow-house with boys, but it happened to also have a newly-installed little incline, plenty wide enough for Willas' chair. He wasn't sure if it had been made for him, but he wasn't going to complain.* 

Inside, Olyvar waited to greet them—they didn't know his name was Olyvar, of course—and only paused slightly at the chair, before bowing. 'Sers,' he said. 'What is your pleasure?'

Willas waited for Oberyn—he wasn't experienced, he didn't know if it was rude to simply ask for a room.

'Beholding you, for a start,' Oberyn said, looking Olyvar up and down. That this had been the only pillow-house in the city with boys on offer was not a distinction that impressed him, and he had been braced for all manner of unwillingness and unpleasantness, but if this lovely creature was any indication, he might not have such a bad time of it after all. 'But for the moment, my friend and I require a room to ourselves, for... oh, the next few hours at the least, more if he should like to sleep and do it all over again.' He cast a fond glance at Willas. 'And perhaps the chance to entertain a few of your boys later on?'

He saw and loved Willas' hunger, and wanted to lavish him with as much as was possible.

Olyvar knew who the ethereal creature in the chair was upon first glance—there were roses carved into the hub of each wheel, and though he wore dark violet and rich red-brown, with embroidery picked out of horses, they were horses in the style of the Reach. This could be none other than Willas Tyrell.

'I know just the one to offer,' he said softly, glancing at a passing boy in a robe in garishly-bright blue-red embroidered with purple leaf-shapes and spirals. His face was painted and shimmered around his eyes. He went behind a curtain, seeming to be at a task that didn't allow him to simply stop and observe new customers.

Willas was intrigued, but wanted more to have Oberyn—or rather, have Oberyn's cock inside himself. 'Later,' he said, looking at Oberyn. Olyvar nodded, smiling warmly, because Ser Willas looked a little nervous.

'This way,' Olyvar said, and led them to one of the empty rooms—and as courtesy, it was one of the ones without any secret passages. No one could spy upon them, here. Only implication could touch them.

Olyvar made sure the room was appointed with everything Oberyn requested—plenty of fine oil, and the solution of water and vinegar Southerners always asked for when up to certain things, clothes, soap, a place to put dirty linen, and fresh sheets. And a little cool wine and water to drink, afterward. The Lark's Nest was a quality pillow-house, in that it offered refreshments.

Oberyn decided then and there that he was definitely making at least one return visit, with accompaniment or not. This place was the first, and perhaps only, thing he'd found to like in King's Landing, though it might have been because he could look around and pretend he was in some other city. It was a pleasant room, richly decorated without being ostentatious, lit with a little sunlight that filtered through a window too high off the ground for anyone to peer through.

He put a golden dragon in Olyvar's hand — 'for your courtesy' — and let his grip linger just a little as he said, 'Shall I pay you the rest later?' He hoped that Willas would not take his evident interest amiss; it did not mean he desired Willas any less, nor thought Willas' desire inconsequential.

Willas simply observed, thrilled to simply _be here_ , which might have seemed simple and even pathetic, for he was a man approaching thirty years; but it didn't matter, he was here, with Oberyn, and _they had time to do whatever they wanted_ , because the earliest anybody had to see Willas was midday, the capital being still in the fashion of only having dinner and then supper, leaving the morning hours free to do _anything_ , and be _anywhere…_

Willas kicked up the footrest with his good leg, levering out of the chair and onto the bed—he no longer wore the brace, so this was a rather sudden motion, using momentum expertly to get him where he needed to be without use of both legs. He looked imperiously at Oberyn, and lifted his good foot. 'Disrobe me, lover,' he ordered, the endearment making the demand a little softer, the sharp edge to the tone clearly lust rather than the perpetual anger of a spoilt prince. But that was Willas all over—he gave orders all in a burst, so unlike the orders he gave his dear beasts, because of being too nervous to go slowly.

Oberyn's smile was the slow one he only displayed when a lover commanded him. He had had his first taste of such things with Nym's mother, with all her imperiousness that was attendant on the Old Blood of Volantis, and soon found he liked it no matter his partner's station, nor for that matter their gender. He loved the very fact that it excited him, rather than causing him offence, and loved the surprise on the faces of those who had never thought to have a prince, let alone such a proud and passionate one, ever submit to them.

Slowly, gently, he pulled off Willas' boots, one after the other, stroking his thumbs over the soles of Willas' feet. 'You want me to leave you bare?' he said lightly. 'But it is so chilly, here...'

Willas gave a smile that was less nervous than before. 'Sport always warms my blood too much to wear anything,' he murmured, even halfway managed a bit of purr. 'Kiss my feet.'

He'd always loved his feet being caressed—even the break of his thigh, the twisting of his knee, couldn't ruin that. He moved himself so that his feet were resting on the bed, as he couldn't bear his bad leg being lifted. The hem of his trews tickled his slim ankles.

Oberyn was glad that Willas did not wear hose; on occasion he could be entertained by divesting a lover of tight-fitted or complicated clothing (sometimes while also disarming them in the process), but he was in no mood to torment himself with that just now. He would draw things out if Willas wished it, or if it was imperative that Oberyn tease him, but otherwise he made no promises.

He ran a hand up Willas' good leg, recognising the style of trews he wore, knowing it would smooth the sandsilk inner lining against Willas' skin. 'Of course, my rose,' he murmured, pressing his lips to Willas' arch, with the barest, teasing flick of his tongue.

Willas sighed, 'Ah-h...' he lay back, and felt. Oberyn's lips were warm, his kisses passionate and sweet. Willas kept his boots cleaner on the inside than most, lining them in soft linen, and tucking sachets of herbs into them every night. His feet smelled faintly of lavender, basil, and pennyroyal, as result.

He felt Oberyn lift his hips with such care, inching his trews down little by little, and _let_ him—he would have let no one else, other than his own mother, but Oberyn may not know that. Willas didn't tell him; it was enough to just _know_ it. 'I love you so,' he sighed, as Oberyn laid a kiss on the bone of his hip, his cock relieved at the ability to spring, flush and ready and dripping with arousal, from its confines. It wasn't very big, but it was uncommon beautiful, looking like some kind of exotic bloom against the deep black of curls on his hips. A cock, and that was all.

(Oberyn was the only one to see this, to know it, other than she who had done the deed, making sure that no one could change their opinion of her son's fertility later on. Willas had asked her, the pain of them unbearable despite the fact that nothing was the matter with them, after the fall.)

Oberyn stilled, struck by what he had just heard. Willas had professed love to him in their letters, which he had answered in kind, for there was much to love in Willas — his thoughtfulness, his gentleness, his care for all the other lives around him (and, not least, the care he took for his own, never demanding of himself more than he could give). Oberyn had often wished that Willas had been born ten years earlier, that Elia might have married him.

But it was another thing entirely to hear those words aloud, spoken with ardour. Willas' scent was in his nose, and the smell of a man in lust always reminded him of the sea, pungent and salt-bitter underneath. Breathing in, he put his lips softly to the head of Willas' cock, and said, 'As I love you.'

'I would feel you inside me,' Willas said. 'Though, I confess, you would not be the first—I had to have Mother bring in a boy for us to work out how to do it, so I could tell you.'

Willas said this in a hushed voice, indeed, for it would be seen as incest by some, when to Willas, it was merely that his mother was who she was, and very much the only person he would trust to help him answer that question. She knew so very _much_ about bedsport, and about Willas, and so it was a natural question for Willas to ask her.

Still, one thing about Willas was, he had determined this, that any lover of his understand how close his relationship _had_ to be with his mother, considering she was the only person he trusted _utterly_ with his body, seeing as she'd birthed it, and also sewn it back together when the horse had broken it.

'I care not if I am the first or the fortieth,' said Oberyn, reaching up to stroke a few of Willas' errant curls back from his face, 'though if it were the latter I would question how you kept such exacting count. A ledger, perhaps.' He smiled, wanting to put Willas at ease. 'Truly, dear heart, I am glad of it, as it means you know something of what you like. Though I mean to uncover more. So tell me, what did this lucky boy do?'

'We started with hands and mouth, those are the easiest; and, well, you have to be beneath me, and I must ride you.' He grinned, for this had amused him greatly, the knowledge that contrary to everyone's assumption, the injury actually meant he had to be atop his lover. 'I must lean against a wall, so it is lucky the bed is against one.' He did not move, however. 'But first, I want your mouth, and,' He raised his good leg, up and letting it fall open. 'Your hands,' he said, with a wicked gleam in his pale eyes.

Like most Southerners, Willas bathed often—once a day if he could—in a full bath of water. There were maesters who had tried to say bathing that often was bad for one's health, that submerging in water was worse. Those maesters were usually dismissed, if they didn't run screaming from the castle at seeing Lady Alerie's bathing pool. Travel had slowed this, though the Tyrells had travelled along the river, not the Roseroad, so they could bathe (and often did, as the river was warm). Willas had often thought on how he wanted to make Oberyn feel at home, and had taken up the Dornish custom of preparing for male lovers with an inner bath, as well—taking very careful instructions from the Dornish maester down in his journal. He'd always wondered if said maester had ever mentioned it to Oberyn.

He'd always hoped Oberyn's maester had mentioned it.

Oberyn had in fact learned of the notion at the Citadel, it having been used widely in Essos to administer medicines (or concoctions that people supposed to be medicinal— Oberyn, with his knowledge of poisons, always found that murky distinction amusing). That it could be used to cleanse the body for lovemaking was all the better, which Oberyn had also learned at the Citadel, having conducted a great many "practical demonstrations" in the dormitories.

'I will have to clean them first,' he said to Willas, bowing his head ever so humbly and raising his hands, spreading the fingers wide for Willas' inspection. 'Is there anything you'd like to do, to prepare?'

'I was up at midnight, I've done all I need to,' Willas said, a little shyer—though he was always first to laugh at his own blushes. 'I might have planned to visit this house from the moment we set foot in the city a week ago. I just didn't expect to find you here—not at the same time, anyroad.'† 

'I set foot in the city not an hour ago,' Oberyn replied, busy with the soap, glancing up at Willas from under his lashes, 'and came here straight away, knowing I would need to fortify myself. I am to sit on the small council, you know, since the invitation was so graciously extended. The Dornish perspective has been lacking in the capital of late, and I have little enough to occupy my time.' His smile was just that much sharper. 'Does that sound innocent enough to be believed, Willas? I practiced on the way here, but I'm not sure...'

Willas had a wicked, murderous little smile in his eyes, one that Oberyn had only seen in his mother's eyes, before…

_It was just after the fateful fall that changed Willas' life; Oberyn had been quarrelling, somewhat in his cups, with the guards posted outside the Tyrell tent, when a woman, tall and strikingly beautiful, had thrown aside the flap of the tent, her black hair blowing loose around her face and body, wearing a sleeveless red gown with her hands and arms bloodied to the shoulders. She had looked at him for long moments, at his reaction, and had smiled like that, and stepped aside._

_'Come in,' she said, 'I would have someone worthy at his side, while I clean up.'_

'I have a gift for you, in that regard,' Willas said, in an unexpected husky growl. 'But make me scream, first.'

Oberyn made no attempt to hide his shiver at hearing Willas speak that way. Over the years, Willas had given him solace, turned his thoughts away from dangerous paths, but he had never once told Oberyn to lay his grief and anger aside, nor that there was no recompense to be found in vengeance. Oberyn had loved him all the more for that.

His hands clean, he padded back to the bed, stripping off his clothing as he did, enjoying Willas' eyes on him. He picked up one of the little jars of oil and toyed with it, a smile playing about his lips. 'A gift other than yourself, you mean?'

'Patience,' Willas _purred_ , and enjoyed the effect it had on Oberyn, feeling confidence feed his pleasure. He gauged the bed's size carefully, and moved his bad leg very carefully—to the side. 'Stretch me, Oberyn,' he said. 'I've been waiting long enough for those fingers...'

Oberyn, it was often said, had a poisoner's fingers—that is, long and thin, and a little crooked when you saw them closed together, and saw the spaces between them. Willas adored them, and he was not the only lover to be entranced—there was a reason Oberyn wore so many rings.

'Twelve years, or nearly. No— thirteen. Eleven?' Willas had only just had his sixteenth nameday when Mace, flush with pride, had declared him fit to enter the tourney, and Willas, drunk as all boys of that age were on tales of glory (Oberyn himself had been no better, duelling old Lord Yronwood), had assented.

As Oberyn spoke, he drizzled oil over the fingers of one hand, flexing his fingers this way and that, curling and uncurling them. He settled himself between Willas' spread thighs, and kissed his fingertip before stroking it against Willas' entrance, a tiny smear of oil left behind, glistening, on his lips.

Willas watched those hands, but after they were out of view, he watched Oberyn's face, watched the tiny drop of oil. His cock twitched, which showcased how that moved the sensitive, scarlet head from its hiding place, and then back again. It was tantalising...

Oberyn leaned down to kiss it again, though it meant he folded himself nearly in half, and as he straightened he began to slide his first finger slowly inside, loving the press of Willas' flesh around him. It was a heady thing, knowing how much Willas had dreamed of this moment, for Oberyn had never permitted himself to imagine it in too much detail.

He drew breath to speak, he knew not what, _is it good, my love_ or something of that kind, and then, not distantly enough, he heard tuneless singing from one of the rooms beyond:

_A coat of gold, a coat of red, a lion still has claws…_

Oberyn stood, and wiped his hands on the towel, and threw his surcote about himself, and went from the room.

Even so, he had not jerked away, had remained gentle in his handling of Willas' body; and for this small detail, he was, as Willas had always known him, a good man.

Willas huffed a sigh, and wondered if it was worth the trouble to pull the bell-rope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * It had actually been suggested by one of the newer boys, who had a lot of ideas about something he called 'accessibility'. The patronage had subtly increased during certain weathers, in a way that was welcome—old soldiers with injuries could manage a ramp better than two or three steps, in bad weather.
> 
> † It was a charming quirk of the Reach and places south, that 'anyroad' was the word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the events and dialogue in this chapter are lifted from S04E01 "Two Swords," and tweaked slightly. Oberyn's introduction in the show is a favourite of both of ours.

Outside, Fuchsia nearly collided with Oberyn on the latter's burst from the room; Oberyn caught his shoulders gently, and didn't miss Fuchsia nearly jumping out of his skin. 

'My apologies for startling you,' he murmured, and offered a coin. 'Please, see to it that my friend is taken care of; I may be a while.' 

The song went on behind them, and Fuchsia took the coin. 'Aw, you're a sweetie. Of course, go on, go make him stop, I can't _stand_ that song.' 

'Thank you, orchid.' Oberyn kept hold of Fuschia's hand for a moment, brushing a fleeting kiss to his knuckles. 'He is ready for you. Make sure he knows I will return.' 

He continued down the hall, knowing he drew stares and not caring.

_'And now the rains weep o'er his halls, and not a sooooo-ul to hear!'_ It ended on a triumphant flourish, which Oberyn had to appreciate for how spectacularly it missed the point. He came into the doorway just as the man squeezed the arse of the girl on his lap. 'What do you think, sweetling, another round? You know how it goes.' 

'I imagine we can all sing it by heart, by now.' Oberyn stepped in. 'You have expensive tastes. I'm sure Lord Tywin is glad to know his gold goes only to the best.' 

The man-at-arms looked him up and down, and he didn't frown, but his smile was more a baring of teeth. 'Well, well, well... don't see many Dornishmen here,'* he leered. His sword was on the table, and that should have been warning enough. 

'And in Dorne we do not see many Lannisters. We can both be fascinated by each other.' Oberyn strolled forward. 'Why is that, do you think?' He wondered how long it would take for the man to realise who he was. There was a certain freedom in being just _a Dornishman._

His companion noised disgustedly. 'Look, you,' he said, 'I don't know who you think you are, but this is a _private_ party.' He pulled his girl a little closer, possessive. 

She kept her eyes from appearing to look at Oberyn, but whores were trained to be subtle about their own needs. 'So go back to whatever thrupenny whore—' 

'Or goat,' he snickered, and his companion smirked.

'Or goat,' he agreed, 'and get out of here.' He was speaking very slowly and clearly, the way he spoke to drunks, and others who might have trouble inferring things. 

'You have such a good grasp of my desires.' Oberyn came up to the little table with its jug of wine, his tone pleasant as a warm spring breeze. 'And I understand yours. You want to be feared, you Lannisters, with your gold and your lions and your gold lions. May I tell you a secret, my friend? You're not an golden lion. You're just a pink little man who is far too slow on the draw.' 

His dagger was in his hand before he had finished speaking, and the man-at-arms found his wrist suddenly pinned to the table, blood already leaking out to pool between his splayed fingers, mingling with a little puddle of spilled wine. 

\- - - 

Willas hadn't been sure about the stranger, who had introduced himself as Fuchsia; but Fuchsia had then asked him what he wanted, and Willas had said Oberyn's name on impulse. Fuchsia had smiled, and they'd started talking. As it turned out, Fuchsia had experience with healing from a terrible wound, and they had become fast friends. It wasn't what Willas had expected, but it was nice. 

Then the scream, and Willas and Fuchsia both startled. 'Oh,' Fuchsia said. 'I missed it. Damn.' 

That, Willas couldn't be surprised at. 'You know him.' Or knew of him, at least. Oberyn had taken great pains to be known, and part of that was making gestures like maiming someone who was singing a song about Tywin Lannister. Willas studied Fuchsia, the little pout of his lips, the slow, catlike blink of his artfully painted eyes. Trust Oberyn to find even a whore who had no love for the Lannisters. 'I don't think it will be the last time.' 

Fuchsia laughed. 'Never met him before in my life,' he said, gesturing with his hands, quite like a Dornishman did, but... not in the same language. 'I just know he's going to stab—did stab, past tense—the singer in the wrist.' He put his hands on his ankles, rocking forward a little from where he sat between Willas' legs. 'Ask me how I know, go on!' he said, grinning with his unnervingly straight teeth. 

Willas tilted his head, fixed Fuchsia with his best approximation of his mother's penetrating look. 'How do you know?' Much as he had immediately come to like Fuchsia, there was something strange about him, about the way he took delight in everything. Almost, Willas thought, as though he were enjoying a story being retold. 

'I've seen it before,' Fuchsia said, in a hushed voice. 'In a dream, you might say. But you weren't here,' he added, tilting his head to one side, regarding Willas askance, smiling with a coquettish curve to his carmine-painted lips. 'I like you. You _sure_ I can't interest you in an orgasm, my sugar?' 

An orgasm. He had a name for it—this was something the whole Lark's Nest had found out, to their delight, when Fuchsia had arrived. The word had spread as far as the Riverlands by now, and into the Free Cities.

'I've never had an orgasm from someone with true dreams,' said Willas, and bit his lip as he imagined Oberyn returning to find him already sprawled limp and sweat-slicked on the bed, needing to be coaxed back into arousal, exquisitely sensitive. He liked the word, too, which Fuchsia had dropped early on in their conversation, liked the hungry sound of it, that it was something you _craved_. 'Will you kiss me?' 

‘Of course, sweetpea.’ He carefully moved up the bed, over Willas’ good side, and leaned down, his lips feeling painted, and so soft. He couldn’t caress with his hands, but his long, slow kiss was quite a thing on its own. 

'You are as bad as Oberyn for little love-names,' Willas said against his mouth. 'I think if I were to dream, I would dream of both of you.' His blush returned somewhat as he said it, and he imagined Fuchsia could feel the warmth in his cheeks, close as their faces were. He picked up the kiss where they had left off, even trying, tentatively, to catch Fuchsia's lower lip gently in his teeth. 'What else would you like to do?' 

Fuchsia’s laugh was soft and wickedly knowing, as he answered between kisses, letting Willas have his mouth, this time; but kissing along his jaw afterward. ‘Mm, besides the two of you?’ he murmured into Willas’ ear, catching the lobe in his teeth. 

Willas gasped, and made a helpless little mewling noise that he supposed he ought to have been embarrassed at. 'Right now,' he said, his voice soft. 'To me.' 

He loved such descriptions, had asked for them in writing to Oberyn every now and again — and sent them, sometimes, when he had found certain books in the library. And Fuchsia had that air, of knowing so very many things. 

‘Ooh, my sweet little _pony_...’ Fuchsia crooned. ‘I wanna do _bad_ things to you....’ and he trailed his long nails down Willas’ chest, careful to avoid his nipples. Red lines trailed after, raised but not bleeding. He had such _long_ nails. 

'I don't see how anything you could do might be considered _bad_ ,' Willas said, with an entreating look. It was nice, he found, to lean into his inexperience just now, to make it something enjoyable instead of unfortunate. He wanted to learn, wanted to experience all that he could, and more, he wanted to see if he could grasp a little of how Oberyn felt, when he surrendered to Willas.

A wicked laugh, syrupy and low. ‘Oh, _precious_ , I want to stuff you so full you feel it in your _throat_ ,’ he purred from the bottom of his register, his hand trailing nails lightly down, until he was gathering Willas’ foreskin in his fingertips, and slowly pulling. ‘I want to tease this _gorgeous_ cock until you _beg_ to come, until you feel so desperate that you’re panting and drooling...’

He wasn’t simply talking—his voice went through that low purr, then a sweet croon, a full dramatic performance in the doing. 

'Mmh — I - I don't think that would take very much.' Oh, gods, it was hard to put words together. 'I'm desperate _now_...' Willas had never thought he would take this role with anyone, not having any interest in women, but he had forgotten some other, rarer flowers of the Reach (though, of course, he doubted Fuchsia was from the Reach at all, or even Westerosi, but he could not place the accent). 

The strict interpretation of the Faith which had taken hold in the riverlands, the stormlands, and the west, long before the Conquest, allowed for only man and woman, but in the Reach, it had long been said: _as the Seven are One, so does each soul contain multitudes._

Willas almost laughed, to hear that running through his head at a time like this, but all he said was, 'Please?' 

Fuchsia leaned down and kissed his cock, as long and slow and hot as he'd kissed Willas' mouth, and left red smudges of lip-paint all over it, which pointed out that red lip-paint must, surely, be everywhere _else_ : all over Willas' mouth, and his jawline, and his neck.... 

Fuchsia's hands had long nails, it was true—on all but the first two fingers of his hands. These were filed short, so short there was no stripe of white at the tip, and these two he dipped in the oil he'd taken care to put at arm's length, sliding carefully between Willas' thighs. He pulled away, eyes intent, voice low and serious and yet not breaking the mood in the least, somehow. 

'You will tell me, in plain words, if you need me to stop, or wait, or move. Is that clear, Willas?' It was the first he'd actually used Willas' name, instead of a pet name—and it felt as powerful as he had said names were. It felt like he'd gently _tugged_ at Willas'... soul, perhaps. His self. Not cruelly, simply attention-getting. 

And hearing his name, in that voice, from those lips, Willas felt again the same queer suspicion that had come upon him when Fuchsia had wished to see Oberyn stab the Lannister man. That even if he had not been in Fuchsia's dreams, still that Fuchsia _knew_ him somehow, had thought of him before. 

'I will,' he said, and meant it. 'I am not one for "oh, no, I mustn't," because I have waited so long, I cannot even play at being hesitant.' That was more candour than he had perhaps meant, but Fuchsia was easy to talk to.

Fuchsia smiled, and it was knowing, and strange, and, perhaps, a little like Lady Alerie's. 'I know _exactly_ what you mean,' he said, and stroked against Willas' entrance, leaving soft, lazy kisses on his cock, never once taking it into his mouth, just teasing with his lips, until it was hard to tell the difference between his lip-paint and the flush of arousal. 'Come on, sweet, lovely, precious prince,' he murmured, all honey as he stroked. 'Is that good, my sugar?' he asked, softly, looking up at Willas, the black lining his eyes making them look cat-like and beautiful, lashes long and black and curling. 'Hmm?' 

'Yes,' Willas said, 'please, more.' 

Fuchsia pushed, just a little. 'More like this?' 

'Yes, yes!' Willas fisted his hands in the sheet, wishing he could arch, push into it.

'Breathe in, slowly...' Fuchsia said softly; when Willas obeyed, he said, 'Good boy, now push as you breathe out, and...' He pushed in, as Willas obeyed, and knew what his sigh meant, what it felt like. 'Good, little prince?' he purred, softly, so as not to overwhelm the sensation. 

'Yes,' Willas breathed, the word seemingly the only one his mouth wanted to form, 'yes, so good, do it again?' 

He knew, in that moment, that no matter what else might happen, he would not regret having come to King's Landing, for it had given him the chance to experience this. He had found what he sought, and more: Oberyn, and pleasure. He rather liked being called a prince, too. The Tyrells had never been kings, so there was no lost crown to yearn after, but to be a prince, in the Dornish fashion — he liked that. He half wondered if he could get Oberyn to call him thus. 

Fuchsia smiled, the smeared lip paint somehow looking wonderfully stylish, artful even, as he slid his finger deeper into that warmth and, very gently, curled upward, just a little. 'Like this, darling? Shall we try and _milk_ you?' His grin was wicked and spreading, like the smile of a cat. 

Louder this time, a moan, at hearing one of the things he had read of. 'Yes!' And Willas could feel it, feel Fuchsia's finger stroking at the edge of something, powerful, promising, and then Fuchsia pressed forward and— 

And!

It was glorious, and all Willas could see as he came was Fuchsia's bright, satisfied smile. When he had the wherewithal to think, he thought with some regret that Oberyn had missed it. He would just have to do it again. He swallowed against a raw throat he didn't remember getting. From the way Fuchsia was looking at him, stroking his hair, he must have screamed. Well, if they could hear "The Rains Of Castamere" from without, everyone else could hear him from within. 

Willas thought that was a good start.

Fuchsia was known, by now, for his talent at making people—of any sex—scream. He was also known for his focus on what he called 'afterglow', that twilight of good feeling that followed an orgasm. Most people at a whorehouse didn't expect it to happen, or be honoured. Fuchsia forced the issue by exhausting his partners. He milked Willas dry, and after he was done, he washed his hands, wiped the mess from Willas' belly and thighs, and came back to stroke his hair, coax him to drink water, run hands over the tops of his thighs, over his arms, run fingers through his hair, to spark pleasure thrumming, gentler than orgasm but no less of a buzz. 

'Good boy,' Fuchsia said, and kissed his brow. 'How was that for a first time, my sugar?' 

'Incredible.' It was the only word Willas could find, and it didn't seem anything like enough. With a great effort, he lifted his head off the pillow to kiss Fuchsia's lips. He had not thought to fuck anyone but Oberyn, but he was truly, deeply grateful for having been introduced to Fuchsia, to learn such marvelous things, to be kissed and spoken to sweetly, knowing it was only the beginning.

'I hope I might be able to see you again.' He caught himself before he could make it a question, not knowing how much freedom Fuchsia was afforded, or even if he simply liked King's Landing (Willas supposed someone had to). Certainly his fantasies of bringing Fuchsia to Highgarden were about as plausible as going dragonriding. 

Fuchsia smiled, and then smiled even wider, the smile changing tone† completely to something deeper, some fervent matching wish. 'Well, then you'll have to come on back, or else kidnap me and drag me down south.' 

_...Perhaps_ , Willas thought, _I should be on the lookout for dragons._

\- - - 

The screams were well-known, by now—Olyvar had made more than a few sets, himself, after he'd found out about Fuchsia's little talent. The _whores_ all knew what was going on. 

Tyrion and Oberyn, however, did not. And Oberyn could recognise the screams—he'd heard them before, after all, though not for such happy reasons. Olyvar stopped Oberyn on his way down the hall, the Prince looking about ready to kill Fuchsia. 

'Ser! Ser, Master Fuchsia has a way of—of wringing pleasure from a man. I swear to you, no harm will have come to your friend.' 

Olyvar had heard tales of Prince Oberyn, too—tales of how he respected the mothers of his many children, gave them coin and visited them through their pregnancies, saw to it that the children—not just his, but any others they had—were well-educated and cared for. Fuchsia called no man but Oberyn 'A Good Man', and that _meant_ something, from a person whose favourite pastime was complaining about men as a species. Olyvar just hoped Fuchsia was right, or else Olyvar was about to lose one of his favourites. 

'It had better not have,' said Oberyn, pushing down the thought that if he had not left, he would have no reason for concern. 'But as my business in there is concluded, I will be finding out.' 

Tyrion followed at what he hoped was a polite distance, in the conviction that having finally found the Red Viper, it was best not to lose him again. If nothing else, someone probably ought to keep track of the stabbings. 

Fuchsia was on the bed, legs propped all the way up against the wall, his head dangling off the edge of the bed, talking to Willas—who was sitting up, against the pillows, a cup of watered wine in his hand. They both looked over when Oberyn came in. 

‘Oberyn, what is wrong?’ Willas asked. 

Oberyn let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Nothing, it seems.' He sounded weary, far removed from the unpredictable and lethal man who had dominated in the other room. 'I cannot help but assume the worst in this _fucking_ place.' What had he truly thought was happening? A plot to murder Willas, this Fuchsia paid off with Lannister coin? He hadn't thought even that far, he'd just heard the screams and reacted. It did not bode well for his composure when he finally had to set foot in the castle where Elia and her children had died. 

'Saaaaame,' Fuchsia said, with an oddly grim sort of camaraderie to his tone. 'Willas and I were just talking about your death, come to that.' 

'And how to prevent it,' Willas said, with that same secretive, wicked smile. He pointed to his chair. 'There's a drawer beneath the seat. Open it, and bring me what's inside?' He held out one long, elegant hand—for Willas, in the fashion of courtiers, had long nails, which only served to make his long hands look even longer. 

Inside was a box — rosewood, of course — with the intricate inlay work common to Myr. But then, Oberyn thought, lifting out the box, Myrmen did everything intricately. They were also close-mouthed, preferring to share their marvels in trade than have outsiders come to gawp and possibly steal their secrets. Oberyn had learned frustratingly little when he had visited, but he _had_ heard rumours that they had managed to replicate YiTish black powder, reaching down the Valyrian road to Mantarys for sulphur and nitre, meddling with mechanisms, producing… 

He opened the box. 

It was a strange item, but had the unmistakable workmanship of a weapon. Oberyn had seen cannons before—there were a few in Sunspear, to defend the fortress against the pirates of the Stepstones. 

'I said give it to me, not snoop,' Willas scolded fondly. 'But as you are looking at it, it's something I brought. I wasn't sure why, but Master Fuchsia told me. You... might want to sit down.' 

Oberyn found a chair and lowered himself into it, not actually relaxing at all. He folded his hands tightly together, interlacing his fingers as he always did when pressed. 'How does it work?' Willas would not have smuggled something to him and claimed it could stay his death if it were not used to kill, so there was little use, just now, in asking what it was. 

There were larger questions, such as, _How are you so certain I'm going to die?_

'Okay,' said Fuchsia, switching into an accent that was heavy on the nasal sounds, moreso on the vocal fry. 'So here's the sitch: It all starts with someone, call him X, being accused of a crime. Now, the accuser—call her.... C—calls for trial by combat, and names her champion as the biggest, meanest, worst knight she can get her grubby little paws on: The Mountain. So, in order to kill the Mountain, _you_ sign on to be X's champion—the _problem_ is that you go traipsing off tra la la thinking that you don't need a helmet, and well, have you ever dropped a melon off a balcony onto a hard surface? I have, that was our lesson on why we always wear a helmet when doing dangerous sports.' 

'He won't tell me any names, or what the crime is,' Willas said to Oberyn, with a sardonic look at Fuchsia, who shrugged—it was something to see, a man shrugging while laying down _and_ upside-down. 

'I need job security,' he said. 'And you never know who's listening. So, the solution is—dahn-da-daaaa...' 

'Have _me_ as X's champion, and I can use _that_ ,' Willas said, and his voice was heated, reminding Oberyn that the Tyrells were currently led by not one, but two queens—the Queen of Roses, and the Queen of Thorns. It reminded him that there were others harbouring rage at Elia's death, others who loved her, others who would murder her murderers and sleep better at night for it. Elia had loyalty, Elia was loved, Elia was remembered. 

Oberyn found he had unconsciously raised a hand to cup the back of his head. He'd tried wearing a helm when he rode with the Second Sons, and hated it. It had never been a problem before, but the picture Fuchsia's words had painted was uncomfortably vivid. _He would kill me as he killed Elia and little Aegon._ The Mountain was a brute, but not entirely ignorant of irony. The thought made him grit his teeth, made him angry enough to say, 'And how do you know X will choose you to be his champion?' 

Fuchsia smiled, and went about getting off the bed, putting his hands on the ground first and slowly flipping over. It was slightly impressive. He went to the door, and opened it. 'Hello,' he said, to Tyrion, who had not expected the door to be opened, as Fuchsia had made no noise while moving across the room.

'Ah, good morning,' Tyrion said. 'I was waiting for Prince Oberyn. I'm meant to—'

'I know,' said Fuchsia, still smiling.

'You know what, exactly?'

'Promise you'll choose Willas.' 

Tyrion's eyes widened. He _had_ been eavesdropping. He'd sent Bronn away so he could do it more easily. He was _used_ to eavesdropping without being heard. Now that Fuchsia was talking to him, the identity of X (and C) was clear. 

'I will,' Tyrion said, resigned. 

'Your word,' Fuchsia pressed. 

'My word.' Tyrion said. 

'Good. Now, you can't be back here without paying.' 

'I did pay,' Tyrion said, 'Master Olyvar recommended Presha.' 

'No,' Fuchsia said. 'You're having me. Come on.' He stepped out into the hallway, looking back only to wave at Willas and Oberyn. 'Ta ra, loves.' He shut the door. 

Willas sighed, in the silence that followed, and leaned back on the pillows, giggling as he recalled the last few minutes. It was a giggle Oberyn had heard from many lovers before, but never Willas—the giggle that punctuated the hours after good sex. 

Still at something of a loss, Oberyn went to claim the spot on the bed Fuchsia had vacated, settling down next to Willas with his arms behind his head. His surcote fell open a little, a reminder that he was wearing nothing underneath, but for once it was not deliberate. 'I suppose I ought to thank that guardsman,' he said presently. 'If he had not been singing, I would not have sent Master Fuchsia to care for you, and we might never have spoken of...' He waved a hand, before rolling onto his side to look at Willas, propped up on one elbow; some of his lovers had found lying with him somewhat tiresome, for how he constantly shifted, even when asleep. 'But tell me,' he said wryly, 'what was so good that I thought it more than a little death?' 

Willas gave a smile more wicked than ever before, but less of violence, than the wickedness of _knowing_ something, something of lovemaking, that was unknown. 'He _milked_ me—that's what he called it. I've never felt _anything_ to equal it, it's only _mentioned_ in one of the books you sent me—at least,' he paused, breathless as he recalled the sensation. 'At least, I _think_ that's what the mention was—oh, _Oberyn_ ,' he was truly panting now, hard again and shivering. 'It was—it was—it was as becoming something _else_ , something more than human. It was—as death, but its _opposite_....' 

'In the Free Cities they say the priests of R'hllor can restore the dead to life,' Oberyn said, eyes half-closed in pleasure at the way Willas sighed his name. 'I have to wonder if they are only doing _that_ , instead.' He reached out, cupped Willas' cock in his hand, fingers curling in to stroke lightly. 'I have done it, and had it done, but never heard it described so. Now, my champion, what else shall we try?' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This was completely untrue, there were plenty of Dornish customers in the Lark's Nest—he just didn't see any of them. 
> 
> † Tyrells were trained in the various tones that expressions could have. Fuchsia would have called these 'microexpressions'.


	3. Chapter 3

They could not stay away from the Red Keep forever, and left Olyvar and his larks with promises to return; Oberyn knew he would be thinking of Fuschia and all his smiles for many nights to come. The Red Viper took his place — Doran's place, had they really ever thought his brother would make the journey? — on the small council, as an advisor to King Joffrey Baratheon. It would have been too much to make him master of something, though the gods only knew what advice he could provide. Still, he could hardly be worse suited to the position than Mace Tyrell was to be master of ships.

In the meantime, he settled for making the master of laws deeply uncomfortable. Kevan Lannister was a stolid man, who had shaken his head sadly at the atrocities of the Sack of King's Landing and then done nothing, for elder brother Tywin could do no wrong. That at least made the meetings entertaining, watching him doggedly continue by that precept. There was little enough of interest; far too much time was devoted to the particulars of the king's wedding, now that the bride had finally arrived, and Tyrion looked more and more resigned with every new extravagance. Lord Tywin merely looked aggrieved, which was some small satisfaction. 

The king himself never deigned to give his opinion, nor attend at all, a habit which he had presumably learned from his father. Oberyn could not say that he minded. 

\- - - 

Willas was immediately married, quietly, to Lady Sansa, in the Great Sept on a morning, at too early an hour for any other titled people to be awake. He brought an extra witness, as the law of the Faith required at least seven, for a marriage—and the large bright hat mostly hid the face. He fulfilled the role of ‘one for the Stranger unknown’ quite perfectly, however.

It was rather nice to have so gentle and pious a husband as to eschew the grand ceremony Sansa had grown to associate with bad things. Willas looked at her as they stood before the Septon, and his smile was soft and kind, as he held her hands in his.

‘You may kiss your bride.’

Willas had a beautiful cane resting beside his bad leg for just this purpose; he pushed himself up, and Sansa was a little afraid at his height; but he leaned down so slowly, so gently, and stroked her hair softly.

When his lips met hers, she believed in happy endings again. 

\- - - 

It might have been early, but the little birds of King's Landing were awake even before the dawn, and word soon fluttered down from Visenya's Hill that the traitor's daughter, the king's former betrothed, was no longer a ward of the crown. Tyrion, unbeknownst to everyone, breathed a sigh of relief; he had been out of sorts ever since his father had informed him that he, Tyrion, was to wed Sansa, and it only awaited the opportune moment to announce it. 

Well, the Tyrells had seen that moment and taken it, and that meant Tyrion could stay with his own lady wife. He had decided, as much to spite Lord Tywin as for anything else, that he was married to Shae. They had spent a year and a day in the arms of no one but each other, and had pledged to stay true. Among smallfolk who did not have a sept, that was considered sufficient, and for Tyrion, it was enough. 

The royal wedding was a different beast entirely. 

The music burst from everywhere at once, along with a rain of confetti, that trailed streamers in arcs over the young and maneless lion currently singing joyfully about what a mighty king he was going to be, while a stonefaced old mockingbird vainly tried to discourage him; the various other animals all sang in joyful chorus. 

Rather ironically, Joffrey died right as the song ended. Laughing in rather childlike joy at the spectacle, that he thought was to his glory. 

He laughed, and his eyes widened, and he died. He had not even fallen to the ground before Oberyn knew that this was how Willas faced the Mountain. Of course Cersei would blame Tyrion for her son's death. In her mind, there was no one more likely to have done it, especially on the day that robbed her of her queenship. 

Sansa, seated next to Willas, watched as Joffrey collapsed. Her hairnet was of plain silver, Olenna having declared that the one of black amethysts did not suit her gown. And so Joffrey's death was not by the strangler, but by a poison even Oberyn had never seen, odourless and tasteless as the tears of Lys, but killing in an instant. 

Fuchsia had provided it, after telling the Tyrell ladies a story about a princess bride... 

Fuchsia had trained his troupe well; they all stayed where they were, smiles still plastered on—most of them going to turn out with teeth as nice as his one day, for he'd shown them all that nitron and boiled water, every night, would keep away tooth-worms of most kinds. Their smiles were quite brilliant, if a little uneven in the case of the smaller birds and fawns, who were after all still in the state of losing milk-teeth and growing in grown-up teeth. 

Fuchsia bowed, and led his troupe off stage; they followed his calm—there had been nothing gory, after all—Joffrey's death had been quite sudden, and total. The only quicker way had been safely hidden in a bit of Fuchsia's costume, and under his tongue, the words fully-formed in his throat and ready to spring out if need be. But the poison had worked, and the world was going exactly as it was meant to, ticking away along its timeline quite happily. 

'It was a very good performance though, I thought,' the new queen said, even as tears fell from her eyes. Fuchsia paused, having heard, and bowed low, before continuing to herd his troupe away. 

'Stay here, Sansa,' Willas murmured, beneath Cersei's screams, putting his hand over hers; he had seen her glance at Margaery, who was putting on a jolly good show of losing her composure piece by piece, and Willas knew Sansa's good heart would want to comfort her. But right now, she needed to not be seen near the queen. 'Come, put your face into my shoulder, and weep, if you know the skill of weeping on command.' 

And Sansa wept, but with relief, sobbing out her gratitude that Joffrey was dead (being careful, of course, not to use any words, no matter how tear-choked). It felt as though she was unburdening herself of every beating, every cruel word, and through it all was the bright clear knowledge that he could never hurt anyone else again. She had survived, and had married a truly good man, and Joffrey was dead. 

'There there,' Willas murmured softly, kissing her temple intermittently. 'I'm here, my princess. Cry your tears, I shall be here at the end.' 

Mace, if nothing else, was solicitous toward the son he still blamed himself for crippling; after a while, he helped him and Lady Sansa from the festivities—after seeing that Garlan and Loras were there to protect their sister, along with other Dornish spears. Much as he disliked Oberyn, he could not argue with his wife's wisdom that a Dornishman was still a _southern gentleman_ , and therefore more trustworthy than anyone farther north. 

By the end of the day, Tyrion was in a cell, and the Red Keep was divided into clear sides—the flora and the fauna. But Margaery sat upon the Iron Throne; and once a rose's throny vines grew over something, she had been taught by her mother, the rose owned it forevermore, the thorns growing ever sharper with age. What was more, she had done what Joffrey and his mother had never bothered doing—winning hearts and minds. Those who had supported Joffrey out of fear now supported Margaery because they saw a light in the darkness. The Reach was rich, the Reach was fair, the Reach had a habit of doing _fun_ things. They were a little southern, but what law said the throne must be held by someone who was born in King's Landing? None. Robert Baratheon and Aegon the Conqueror himself would have been barred if that were the case. It wasn't called King's Origin, it was called King's Landing. 

Margaery wore the prescribed mourning garments, wept and wailed and prayed in the Sept, spoke good words over the dead during the funeral. She did, however, surprise everyone—Cersei included—by blaming Tyrion, and having him put in a cell. He was, however, treated properly according to his station, and was not exactly suffering anything but want of sunlight, when Cersei petitioned for trial by combat, and the new Queen granted her the right. 

Oberyn came to see Tyrion in his cell that night, and neither one of them were surprised to see one another. 

'You're late,' Tyrion said, but it wasn't true; it was simply a friendly insult to start the conversation. 'I expected you at lunch.' 

'One bowl of gruel is much like the next,' said Oberyn, leaning against the wall. 'Or do regicides merit bread and water?' He was silent for a moment, staring at the dancing flame of the torch (which Tyrion was glad to have — if Cersei had her way, he would have been in the black cells). 'I wonder if I shall take your place in here before much longer,' he said. 'The king was poisoned, there is no doubt of it. Someone might concoct a story of seeing me near the royal goblet, or in the kitchens before the feast. As if I would take vengeance on Lord Tywin's grandson.' He snorted. 'Though I would have gladly killed the little tyrant on his own merits; Myrcella told stories of what he did.' 

Another pause, the prince staring into Tyrion's mismatched eyes. 'In another life, I would have been your champion. Now I will be with you in the stands, to watch the Mountain die.' 

Tyrion looked back, well-practised at holding gaze with people—it was chief in his weapons of intimidation. Right now, however, he gazed into Oberyn's eyes, both of them caught up in some kind of story prophesied by a whore who was quite possibly mad as a spring hare. 

Life was funny sometimes. 'Do you think Willas can kill him?' Tyrion asked. He had only heard a little of the talk about some sort of advantage, secret, that Willas held, that only Willas could hold. Likely something to do with a weapon from the east. 

'I do,' said Oberyn shortly, finding that he did not want to say more, as though speaking of it aloud would rob the weapon of its power. He supposed it made little sense to be more reticent about that than his desire to kill Lannisters, but then, he was not a very sensible man. 

'Then so be it. I name Willas Tyrell my champion.' Tyrion sat down, unable to help the feeling he'd soon be blamed for the death of _two_ beloved sons—and one was worth a crown. Tyrion had barely met Willas Tyrell; but what he'd seen from afar was enough—he was the story prince that Sansa dreamed of, and deserved. 'You realise the Tyrells will want to kill me even more, now,' he said, glum. 

'People have wanted to kill you your entire life,' Oberyn said, looking down at him. 'You have spited them thus far.' 

He still raged to remember Cersei, a golden little slip of a girl, holding the babe up to show them and saying, _I tried to drown him, but Septa Drusilla caught me._ He had hugged Elia tight as soon as they were away, begged her to refuse the match to Jaime if the matter was broached. They left the day after, with no betrothals, to his vast relief. Lord Tywin's dismissal was sweeter than honey if it meant Oberyn did not have Cersei as his good-sister — or worse, as had also been proposed, have to marry her himself. 

'Sleep,' he said, turning away. 'Tomorrow justice will be done.' 


	4. Chapter 4

The Tyrells were outraged, even more when Willas calmly accepted. Nothing could be done; the Mountain was going to kill him. 

'Willas, you cannot possibly accept!' Margaery begged. 'Why not Oberyn? Name him instead!' 

'He named me,' Willas said, quietly. 'Have you so little faith in me?'

Margaery sniffled, and thought on how her brother was so calm. This seemed too calm. Planned, even. She was still trembling with fear, but she gathered herself and tried to have faith in her eldest brother. He was most like Mother, after all; and Mother was full of secrets. 

\- - - 

'The cripple!' Cersei shrieked with laughter. 'We've won already!' 

\- - - 

Willas wore no armour but a pair of fine black gloves, well-fitted, and a broad-brimmed hat of green felt, to shield his face from the bright sun, which beat down upon them both. 

The Mountain leered at the man he was meant to face, but Willas met his gaze with calm eyes, cold eyes. No more where they the warm green of spring—no, now they were the pale green of the sea in winter. The Mountain did not see Willas' conviction, his lack of politeness, as a warning.

He should have.

He charged—there was a bang, and a flash of fire, the smell of smoke, and the spray of blood as the bullet spun through the barrel of the pistol and flew, true and straight, right into the warrior's foolishly-open mouth. He collapsed all at once, with a wet thud, and the wind blew the smoke from the barrel of the pistol Willas was holding in two hands, his aim steady as a rock. 

People forgot, often, that Willas had trained as a warrior, just like his brothers. An injury did not change a warrior's training, nor his inclinations. 

Gasps rippled through the assembly like the rush of waves. Only Oberyn Martell did not look shocked, but smiled grimly. It was, he was relieved to find, no less satisfying for not having struck the blow himself. _They will not hide the ruin of_ his _head in a Lannister cloak._

No doubt Cersei would fling accusations of cheating, but after all, no one had specified the weapons to be used. Sword or spear or Myrish marvel*, it was all the same. Tyrion was innocent, and Gregor Clegane was dead.

_Now, Oberyn thought, I will see what Fuchsia has to say about Tywin Lannister._

Willas did something that no one expected, then; he reloaded, then, wheeling over to the corpse, placed the gun point-blank against the temple, and fired again. It was something he'd been warned about, something chilling that Fuchsia had mentioned, in his meandering conversation.

_You have to make sure the brain is destroyed, so they can't rise again as white walkers—undead, as my folk call 'em. And something as evil as the Mountain's likely to rise again. Make sure he doesn't. Head shot, salt, and burn._

Willas didn't intend to let the Mountain rise again, and he knew enough stories, had enough time he spent thinking, that he knew Fuchsia had mentioned it for a reason. He _knew_ things, terrible things. 

'That was for Queen Elia,' Willas said, not shouting but making sure his voice carried. 'May it bring her spirit peace.' 

\- - - 

Yet Oberyn would not know peace until the man who had sent the Mountain into Maegor's Holdfast was dead as well. It was with that in mind that he returned to the Lark's Nest, making no secret of where he was bound. Let the court titter about his insatiability; it would keep suspicion away. So long as he was fucking, he was not plotting ruin. 

Oberyn had always been rather proud of his ability to do both.

He asked for Fuchsia, and they retired to the same room where he and Willas had been. 'This is not how I ordinarily mean this question,' he said, 'but what else have you dreamed of me?' 

Fuchsia took a deep breath, not breaking Oberyn's intense gaze; but Oberyn could see the fear. 'I know he's fucking Tyrion's wife, that she's lying. I know he's a terrible person. I haven't got anything useful to assassinating him, sidewinder, more's the pity,' he said, and braced. 'But,' he said, 'if you want, we could ask my gods.' He went over to a drawer and got out a satin pouch, pulling out a small, colourful deck of cards. 

Tarota, that's what it was called by the Free Cities fortune tellers. Oberyn had never heard of gods being involved. What gods were Fuchsia's? 

Fuchsia went over to sit on the floor by the window, motioning to the other side of the patch of sunlight on the floor. 'Come,' he said, 'sit. Let me lay your cards.' 

_Sidewinder._ Oberyn's mouth quirked in amusement. It was true, though, he reflected. This was not the sort of thing that could be tackled head-on, but must be approached subtly, treacherous as shifting sands. 

If any gods saw fit to help him, he could hardly scorn their assistance, though it was long enough in coming. _The gods do not meddle in mortal affairs, no matter how we beseech them._ He had decided that long ago, but perhaps Fuchsia's gods were different, as was everything else about him. 

He sat. 

Fuchsia closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, beginning to shuffle the cards. 'Apollo,' he said. 'See this child of your sun, kissed by the touch of your sun, thirsting for justice— _justice_ , Lord of Law, justice for a wrong done years ago. A tale for the ages, Apollo, Storyteller of Storytellers.'

He set the cards down, and opened his eyes, blue burning green into Oberyn's. 'Cut the deck with your off hand, and I don't think I need to tell you to concentrate on what you want to know.'

He took the deck back, and began by laying one card. 'This for whether Apollo will give an answer.' 

Fuchsia had almost gotten used to the cards actually _changing_ , here, especially since he'd started being able to sacrifice better and more often. 

A helm that Fuchsia knew well, with long and curving horns; and a cloud covered the sun quite suddenly, making the gleam of gold fleeting, and seem to turn to silver.

'Ah,' he said. 'Of course. Mother of serpents is who we ask, not you.' He settled back, and looked apologetically at Oberyn. 'Sorry, I have a couple gods of divination and magic. Do you have anything to offer on you? Blood, poison, wine...?'

Oberyn was silent a moment, and then reached into his surcote and produced a little jade statuette of a many-legged creature with a grimacing human face, a scorpion's tail arched over the shape of folded wings carved into its back. With a deft turn of his fingers, the head came loose, revealing that the body was hollow, with something glinting dimly inside. The prince turned it over and shook a tiny phial into his hand.

'Manticore venom,' he said. 'I meant to use it on my spear, but there is no need for it now; it is not the kind of poison that can be put into food or drink. I give it to your gods in thanks.' 

Fuchsia took the phial, smiling wickedly. 'Oh,' he said, in a very different voice, someone else behind his eyes. 'This is _excellent_.' He canted his head, coy and yet wicked—wickeder than Fuchsia, with eyes that didn't just glow green, they _were_ green. 

'Now,' said he, 'you wish an enemy dead. Such a gift puts me in a mood to grant more than information in return....' 

Outside, a raven older than any raven in the sky, and larger, landed upon the roof, toothed beak preening at primitive feathers, sickle claws folded up and shining bright as new knives in the dim sunlight. It croaked, something that would, in its great-grandchildren, become the noise of a raven. 

'I am Loki,' said the god riding Fuchsia, turning the phial of poison over in his fingers. 'What do you seek, that you cannot make yourself?' 

It was a question that merited thought.

Oberyn did not hesitate. He had thought on this already. 'A way to kill Tywin Lannister that will not point to me,' he said. 'If it is poison they will know, if his throat is slit in the night they will know, and he will never duel me. But a god could stop his heart.' 

The words came easily, but they were hard to speak. To relinquish the Mountain's death was one thing. Tywin's was another. Oberyn supposed that this, too, was part of his sacrifice. He was offering up something more precious to him than he wanted to admit: the anger he had nursed for sixteen years and more. He hoped Elia would not fault him for it. 

_'Any_ god could stop his heart. Stopping his heart is so _boring_....' Loki said. 'But,' he said, 'you are clever, specifying it cannot point to you. Yet to stop his heart only, that insults me in ways you know not, ignorant child of the Seven you are. Still,' he said, 'you _are_ a serpent, so they say, and one of my children if you are...' He regarded the phial of poison, reminding himself of its presence, and fine quality, huffed, and snapped his fingers. 'Fine, it is done.' 

Fuchsia's eyes closed, then he shook his head, shivering like a wet animal shaking off water, before opening his eyes, which were blue once more, and rather ordinary.

'Take me with you,' he said, nervously. 'I need to live in the south.' 

'Then I will have to get the new king to dismiss me,' said Oberyn, 'though I can't imagine that will be terribly difficult. At least now there is a good chance I will keep my head.' He laughed, and there was an odd edge to it, still reeling from having been in the presence of a god. 'If I must remain, though, you could always go with Willas. He and his new bride will be returning to Highgarden as soon as they are able.' He hoped he wouldn't have to. With both the Mountain and Tywin dead, his business in the capital was finished, and no doubt Doran could concoct some urgent matter that called him back home. 

He didn't ask why Fuchsia wanted to go so badly. He knew already. 

Fuchsia narrowed his eyes with a sudden idea. ' _You_ could be the new king,' he said, before gathering his cards and getting to his feet. 'And maybe I could help Lady Sansa and Ser Willas... get to know each other safely. Mention it to them?' Fuchsia tried not to sound too eager; but he did _love_ teaching Sexual Education.

The Red Viper made a choking noise, some half-formed word that was probably obscene. ' _Me_ , the king? Seven hells, no. I am not even the ruling Prince of Dorne — Arianne will inherit after Doran, and I am glad of it. Kings cannot travel unless it is a royal progression or a march to war, kings cannot take lovers without consequences and fear, kings cannot have an hour of peace to read to their daughters.' 

He took a deep breath, let it out. 'If there is to someday be a Dornish arse on the Iron Throne, it will not be mine, ser. Your other idea, though, that one I like. I will speak to them. Willas is already half besotted with you.' 

Fuchsia grew serious. 'The realm would prosper, were a good man like you on the throne, and a good woman like Margaery Tyrell by your side in tandem. It would be a time of loving peace, liberty, and reform. Your daughters could live in a kingdom where they could travel north without being afraid. You could set up the _future_ to be better than the present. Are you _sure_ , Oberyn?' 

Fuchsia was rarely deathly serious—being deathly serious did not make people happy, and unhappy people didn't pay. But Fuchsia saw a chance, saw a future that could be better; moreover, he knew what the future held, if not. 

Oberyn sat back on his heels, and reminded himself to whom he spoke. All his life he had accepted that Doran was the ruler and he the rogue. It was comfortable for him, it was part of who he was, knowing he would not sit in the Old Palace except in the most dire circumstances. But in Dorne there was nothing much that needed redress; even in the worst parts of the shadow city, it was nothing like the vicious pigsty that was King's Landing. _Could_ he change that? Could he make it so that no one ever suffered the fate of Elia and her children, that murderers did not go unpunished? 

He imagined the lion and stag replaced by the sun-and-spear, quartered with the Tyrell rose. The throne went to those who could take it, and the gods — usually — only looked on. The Baratheons had no more right than did the Targaryens, when it came down to it. The blood of the dragon only meant the threat of dragonfire. 

He thought of Margaery, her cleverness, her kindness. If he had to marry, he could do much worse, and he could trust her as he could not trust strangers vying to be his queen.

His queen. So easily he fell into the thought. _King Oberyn Martell, First of His Name._ The Young Dragon would gnash his teeth in his grave. 

All he said was, 'What of Tommen?' 

Fuchsia raised a browless brow. 'What _about_ Tommen? He's a child, and has no claim at all—he's not even Robert's _kid_.' He put his hands on Oberyn's shoulders. ' _Hunty_ ,' he said, 'you won't get much more of a Sign than this. You want things to change? You want things to get better? Then bitch, you better _werq.'_ He snapped expressively, something Oberyn had seen him do a few times before. 

'Stannis Baratheon already tried to inform the realm that Cersei's children were sired by her brother,' Oberyn said. 'It didn't take.' But Fuchsia ought to know that, as he knew everything else; it was like reciting the _Seven-Pointed Star_ to a septon. 'We already put one Lannister on trial.' He was thinking aloud now. 'If we could get Cersei to confess... but in any case, I will see if Margaery will have me. I flatter myself that I would make a good consort.' 

Fuchsia kissed his nose. 'On behalf of all the little people, thanks. Oh, and prepare for dragons, because there's three coming. I'll do what I can but I can't _go_ all the places I See.' 

Fuchsia hoped he'd ask questions—Fuchsia was good at questions. He wasn't sure what to say first, otherwise. But the dragons thing seemed the most important, all things considered. 

'The Targaryen girl. I had forgotten.' Oberyn wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry or scream at the absurdity of it, how tangled up it all was. 'My nephew is on his way to try and marry her.' Doran had entrusted him with the knowledge, so that he did not do anything so rash as, say, try to bring Dorne to the brink of war again, this time for the sister and not the brother. 'If she does return, there are many who will say she has a better claim than Margaery or myself, and dragons are... _persuasive.'_ The Iron Throne itself was proof enough of that. 'Would her reign be so much worse?' 

Fuchsia's voice went grim and sure. 'Yes. Ask me why.' 

Oberyn couldn't help but smile, though it was a grim and mirthless thing. 'Is it more than three dragons and a burning conviction that the throne is hers by right?' He thought of Quentyn, studious and shy. Would he be able to stay her hand in anything, assuming she even chose him to sit beside her? As a child he had followed along dutifully after Arianne, taking what roles in her games she demanded of him, before retiring to his books at the first opportunity. It was hard to imagine him wedding a dragonlord. 

_A pity they could only marry Arianne to Viserys_ , he thought. Among the Rhoynar, a joining of two princesses had been fearsome indeed. 

‘She’s busy learning that she can just kill people that upset her instead of anything about queencraft. I am not a violent man, but nothing will stop her except death—and she’ll destroy Westeros if she comes here alive.’ He sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘I love dragons, so it hurts to say they should die; they _should_ be allowed to be animals, they’re just animals—but people keep using them for weapons and...’ he trailed off, huffing a noise of disgust and despair. 

Oberyn’s knees had been starting to complain anyway, so he got up and came to sit beside Fuchsia. 'And I suppose you know of no one who could teach her, nor any dragon tamers.' He wasn't sure anyone could dissuade the girl — Daenerys, he remembered, after the one who had married Prince Maron — from being queen, but they could perhaps keep her from going down the same road as her father. And if anyone knew who that might be, it was Fuchsia.

Fuchsia shrugged. ‘Why should she listen to anyone? She has three dragons, an army of horse-lords and fanatical soldiers, and a prophecy behind her. I’ve been wracking my brain since I got here, Oberyn, believe me. The only person she’d listen to would be a dragon.’ 

Fuchsia paused. ‘A dragon,’ he repeated, looking thoughtfully off into space. ‘Could I...?’ Could he turn into a dragon? Was it possible? Well, there was magic here—he channelled Loki a few moments ago, fuck’s sake! ‘Hang on, let me try something... this might get weird...’ 

He closed his eyes, concentrated hard on becoming a cat. So hard, that he didn’t realise how _quickly_ it happened. 

Oberyn jumped, he couldn't help it. He'd heard tales of people who could actually take the shapes of animals, rather than ride the will of one already living — the Asshai'i, the priests of certain gods in the Free Cities, the ironborn of House Farwynd, even some among the Rhoynar who were his own ancestors — but hearing something and seeing it were two different things entirely. Different things that made him glad of his strong stomach, when he tried to picture some of what he'd just seen slowed down. 

He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and offered his closed hand to the cat, saying, 'If you mean to try a dragon, I think we should go outside.' 

*Dragon is for after I've got a clear picture of what I want the dragon to _be_ , I didn't want to risk getting splinched.* The leggy, silky black cat spoke in his mind, and felt exactly as Oberyn would expect a cat to sound, as Fuchsia trotted up and tried rubbing against Oberyn's hand, and purring. *Oh. Oh this is _excellent_ , yes,* he said, as Oberyn started skritching him. *Oh yes,* he said, purring louder, pushing his face hard enough that Oberyn could feel the tips of his little canines against his skin. *This is _excellent_ , I see why cats do this now.* 

Fuchsia's fur was very soft, longer and more luxurious than the ticked reddish-gold of Loreza's shadow city stray. Oberyn tried to just focus on that, and not think of Elia's last letter to him, which had been full of the doings of Rhaenys and her black kitten.

'I'm sure we could find a picture of a dragon,' he said, 'though perhaps not in the Red Keep; King Robert had the tapestries burnt. I hear the skulls are still there, though, in the bowels of the castle.' Oberyn had always rather wanted to see those. In his idle hours he had sometimes imagined spitting in the eye of the Doom and travelling to the Lands of the Long Summer, or beyond the Shadow, so that he might have a chance at seeing a dragon before he died. Now it seemed he might not have to go very far at all. 

*It’s not about your pictures, boyo, it’s about mine. I’ve seen so many dragons—pick me up—that it’s about me having to decide a bunch of things, and commit to them, before the image will stay the same for longer than five seconds. I have to decide what kind of breath-weapon I want, and what kind of wings, and whether I want feathers or not—no, on your shoulder please, thank you, now squish me a bit, that’s good, yes. Support my bottom. Okay, good, now you can move and I won’t feel the need to dig my claws in.* His tail was lashing as he thought about the dragons he’d seen, what kind he wanted to be. *Oh! I had an idea just now. Sansa needs a dog, right? I should be her dog. Then I can keep her safe!* 

Oberyn felt a little bit like he'd just been slapped, hearing, _I've seen so many dragons_. Dragons of such varying kind, no less, that one had to choose between them, or cobble together parts as though digging through castoff armour. He shook his head, carefully, and said only, 'Dog by day, and teacher by night, I suppose?'

*Metaphorically,* said Fuchsia, as they walked out. *Olyvar! No—over here—I’m the cat, Olyvar. That’s a thing I can do now. I’m off for the day. I’ll charge him for the time. Lock my room for me. I’ll be back, but I might be leaving on an adventure soon. Love you—ooooh yes, cheek skritches, I love cheek skritches.* 

Olyvar chuckled, his heart still racing from the fright Fuchsia had given him. 'I should have known it was you, you look like a witch's cat,' he said, petting Fuchsia's soft fur. 'Take care of him, my lord,' he said to Oberyn. 'You kids have fun.' 

Fuchsia laughed, even as he purred louder; it was a phrase he used all the time, it was weird to hear someone else say it. 

'So where are we bound?' Oberyn asked, taking care to pitch his voice low and move his lips as little as he might. 'Should we hurry to the palace, to see them discover Tywin's body?' He wondered if anyone would really expect him to put on a show of mourning. Like as not, they would be pleased enough if he refrained from laughing or trying to desecrate the corpse (or perhaps they wouldn't — that would have spawned enough gossip to turn the court's grindstone for _years_ ). 

Fuchsia's weight was comforting on his shoulder, and the cobbles were even enough here that he didn't constantly have to worry about tripping. Which was for the best, as he had more than enough on his mind without getting preoccupied with his feet. What was he going to say to Margaery?

*The minute Loki snapped, Tywin was dead, you realise,* Fuchsia said, looking around and realising his vision was really shite, but the smells were a lot louder. He burrowed into Oberyn’s surcote—unlike a normal cat, he knew how to make the overstimulation go away. His whiskers and nose helped him navigate around the weapons Oberyn had hidden inside his clothes. 

He realised he wasn't bound by Animorphs rules, and smoothly turned into a serpent, slithering up and coiling comfortably around Oberyn's neck—not all the way around, just draping around the back—and felt better. Snakes couldn't hear as well as cats, and didn't have whiskers. *Now I can think....* he said, and did so. *Go where you like, though I think you should tell the Queen of your intent to marry her immediately. Bring flowers and chocolates, or whatever it is Westerosi use.* 

'I have a snake,' Oberyn said, grinning. 'Is that not the best courting-gift, for me?' 

‘Ass,’ came the reply, but despite Oberyn understanding it, he knew it wasn’t Westerosi. ‘I’m only hanging around until I know the propsal is solid. You’ve gotten me into hero mode, for better or worse; I need to make sure Sansa and Willas are safe and happy.’ 

'And I need a proper way to thank you for that. For everything. Think about that while I press my suit.' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Pistala_ , in Myrish Low Valyrian. It meant "pipe," in the sense of a flute, because people were like that.


	5. Chapter 5

Aegon's High Hill was, in Oberyn's opinion, much higher than it had any right to be, and his legs ached by the time he returned to the Red Keep. What was the need for such a high vantage point when you could look down on the world from dragonback? "Immediately" meant that he had no time to bathe, but he did as much swift grooming as he could, and found a dagger amongst his belongings that had its hilt etched with twining vines. Daggers were a common courting-gift in Dorne, and suggested a certain amount of trust on the part of the giver. 

Fuchsia was sitting on Oberyn's bed, except at the moment, he looked like anything but Fuchsia. _Allegedly_ he was a dog, but he looked more like a rug—which, he had explained, was the point: no one meaning to assault Sansa would expect her sheepskin rug to suddenly rear up and _bite._ The element of surprise was something Fuchsia rather liked. 

All the while Oberyn was getting ready, Fuchsia was chattering about dragons. Which breath-weapon (he seemed to be leaning toward a combination of 'fire-extinguishing foam', whatever that was, and _lightning_ ), feathers or scales (mostly feathers), and whether he should have silver bones or hollow ones. Skin wings were a must, because they were apparently superior to feathered ones—but the actual _mechanism_ of flying, he knew a lot about. 

And then there was colour— _that_ was the hardest decision. 

By the end of it, Oberyn had to sit down too. He had managed to read _Blood and Fire_ — which had hastened his exit from the Citadel — and a few of the better-known scraps of Barth's _Unnatural History_ , but this was enough to fill a dozen books, a hundred even, and not once did Fuchsia mention firewyrms or wyverns or anything other than dragons, dragons, dragons. There seemed to be more kinds of dragons than there were fish, or birds. 

Dragons had ever fascinated him, from the time he had been to Hellholt as a boy and seen the bones of Meraxes. But by Fuchsia's standards, the dragons he knew were positively drab and ordinary. (If there was such a thing as ordinary, for dragons. Apparently there was.) And perhaps because it was Fuchsia saying it, Oberyn could not help but remember certain other stories he had read, intended to slander the Targaryens, that told of the Valyrians using magic to couple with their dragons, for the bond between them was already stronger than that of a lover's. 

Oberyn had spent quite a bit of time wondering how that might work, and at last he could bear it no longer, and said as much. 

Fuchsia didn’t so much as skip a beat. * _Some_ dragons—meaning, the kinds that are _people_ rather than _beasts_ —have a humanoid form. But they pass draconic features to any offspring, so you’d definitely know if you met a half-dragon. And then there’s some dragons that are pretty small; either way, make sure it’s possible to get consent before fucking another species.* 

'I would do nothing otherwise,' Oberyn said, his pride a little stung, though he had been around Fuchsia long enough to understand that Fuchsia took nothing for granted when it came to men, except of course the worst behaviour. 'But as I am not likely to meet any of your dragons, I thought perhaps if you wished to play more with skinchanging—' He raised his brows enquiringly. 

*Oh! Oh, that’s a _brilliant_ idea! If you and the queen can turn into dragons, that evens the odds!*

It took a minute, before Fuchsia raised his head. *That was a proposition to fuck me in dragon form, wasn’t it?*

Oberyn laughed, but he was looking at Fuchsia with a new intensity. 'It was,' he said, 'but just now, I find your misapprehension the more interesting. This' — he made to scratch behind Fuchsia's ears, but could not at first find them, so merely petted the corded curls at the nape of his neck — 'this is a thing you could teach others to do?' His words were coming faster with ill-concealed excitement, his breath quickening. 'Is another sacrifice required?' 

*As far as I can tell, this is just a matter of knowledge—knowledge that I have, apparently; but I’m not sure how to teach you imagination. That’s the thing about magic—you need a good strong imagination, as well as a will, and knowing that nothing is impossible, and _also_ knowledge of how the world actually works. You have to know the rules before you can break them.*

He got to his feet, shaking himself—which looked rather dramatic. *First things first, though—you have to go see the Queen, and give me to Sansa and Willas as a wedding present.* He sounded very happy with the prospect of being somebody’s pet, his tail wagging. 

Oberyn had never thought going to see Willas would seem the more disappointing option, but he also had never thought he would be offered the opportunity, however slight, to turn himself into a dragon. He pushed aside his impatience (a skill he had had to cultivate over the years, out of necessity), stood, and headed for the door, saying, 'And where shall I have found you? You are not a Dornish dog, I'm afraid.' 

He had seen guardian dogs of similar size in the Free Cities — Qohorik boarhounds, Norvoshi shepherd dogs, and the like — but none like Fuchsia. 

*I’m a Komondor, from Uberwald’s mountains. We’re bred guardians, with natural armour and fierce loyalty to our master—or mistress.* 

Fuchsia was fully prepared to keep fabricating strange lands and not saying where they were, other than 'far away'. This was a world where that was believed—the world was too big to know altogether. It wasn't like Fuchsia's world at all, and it was very much more interesting, because of it. 

\- - - 

As it happened, the Queen was currently in the garden with her family, all of them enjoying the warm weather while it lasted, by having breakfast outdoors in the grand arbour. Sansa was with them, being that she was a Tyrell now. Everyone took notice of them as they entered, and Fuchsia was glad he'd chosen a bit of a fancy look for the dreadlocks—they were indeed very impressive in motion, when they were ankle-length. 

Oberyn had put on his finest clothes (which, it had to be said, were a good deal finer than those he had worn to the wedding), and made quite a striking sight amidst the green of the garden, all rich ochre and gold embroidery. He stopped at the entrance to the arbour, framed by trailing flowers, and inclined his head. 'Your Grace, I know you are not soon out of mourning, but I beg audience with you, to put forth a suggestion.' He had briefly considered adding _humbly_ , before reminding himself there was little use in lying. 'And a gift, for your brother and his bride.' 

Fuchsia stood proudly, and trotted over to Sansa, sniffing at her before letting his mouth open in a dog smile, panting and wagging his tail. Sansa realised about the same time as everyone else.

'You're a _dog!'_ Sansa said, delighted and petting him.

'What an ugly creature,' Olenna said. 'Quite clever, _I_ thought it was a rug.'

Fuchsia put himself firmly next to Sansa, laying down at her feet. 

'Wherever did you find such a creature?' Willas asked. 'And where did you hide him?' _How dare you hide a dog from me_ , his gaze accused playfully. 

'A traveler from a faraway land pressed him on me,' Oberyn said, smiling. 'The strangest things happen to you, when you are a prince. I'll tell you the story later, if you like.' He looked back to Margaery, who was regarding him with her doe's eyes. He wondered what was going on behind her smile. 'I promise this is not an attempt to put myself in the queen's good graces — I brought a different gift for that.' 

Margaery smiled her secret smile, the one with a hidden kiss, and said, ‘We were just thinking of suggesting something to you, Prince Oberyn; I wonder if it is the same one.’ 

He was a prince, and Dorne was a more attractive prospect, given its size and prosperity. It was the trade port of many places, and the source of everything from silk and carmine to exotic spices and medicine. The crown needed Dorne’s alliance, and Dorne needed a reason to stop plotting against the crown. 

'Well then,' he said, 'it's only proper that you suggest yours first.' He very carefully did not look at the Queen of Thorns, who he suspected of being a considerable part of that _we_. She had negotiated her own marriage to Luthor Tyrell, so the story went, and had found her grandson Garlan a lovely Reach wife even before the inheritance of Highgarden had passed to him. Oberyn rather thought that if she had turned up a suitable boy for Loras, no one would have dared gainsay her. But of course the Knight of Flowers wore the white cloak now. _Let it be less fatal for him than it was for my uncle._

‘Oh, no,’ she riposted swiftly, ‘I would listen to yours first; a queen must listen first, and speak second.’ Margaery had some very strong opinions on proper conduct for a leader. 

_Doran will like her. Perhaps more so than he will Daenerys._ 'Your Grace,' he said, 'I came to court for varied reasons, but I remain now in part because of you. I would offer myself as your consort, to aid you in healing the wounds of the realm. I cannot think what to say of myself that you do not already know, in some form or another, so here I am.' And he bowed. It was a small one, but it was there. 

Margaery made him wait—made herself wait—for a few moments, before replying very simply. ‘I accept.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You cannot convince me that Oberyn Martell would not fuck a dragon if the dragon was sapient and into it.


	6. Chapter 6

History had never come easily to Cersei. Try as she might, the various Daerons and Jaehaeryses and every Aegon after the first one were like mummers to her, stepping in and out of each others' names and roles, trading great deeds, bewildering her. Even the tactic many maesters used, of matching the kings and queens to their dragons, did not help much; she only remembered feeling great sympathy for Rhaenyra, denied her chance to sit the Iron Throne for the crime of being a woman. 

Now, though, thanks to Varys, she knew to direct all of her hate and anger at Aegon, Third of His Name, and his disastrous regency, which had been so rife with chaos that it had caused a law to be enacted: to prevent anything like the misrule of the Council of Seven, the king would be considered to hold the Iron Throne not at his majority, but at the age of four-and-ten (this being twice seven, and auspicious). Further, if anything were to befall the king, his queen would inherit, with the intent of course being that she remarry as soon as possible. A young queen was considered better than a succession of boy kings, each younger and more malleable than the last. 

A young queen. _Another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear._ Bygone Targaryens might tangle together, but the words of Maggy the Frog would never be anything less than painfully clear. Margaery was queen, and Margaery had no need to marry Tommen, and thus Cersei was no longer Queen Regent, nor even Queen Mother. 

She had nothing.

She had thought, ever more often as the years wore on, that she would breathe a sigh of relief when her father finally died, but not even that had been left to her. Instead she wished for his presence, for although she would have chafed under whatever he ordered her to do next, she would at least have had something to do. 

Grand Maester Pycelle, weeping, had said that he could find no trace of poison. Lord Tywin's heart had simply failed him, in a terrible echo of his own father's death, for all that he had kept himself hale and never indulged to excess in anything. Cersei had accused Tyrion, and the Red Viper of Dorne, but nothing could be done to convict either of them. 

And to add insult to injury, Tyrion had been reinstated as Hand, and Oberyn Martell, that Dornish _snake_ — 

—he was to be _king!_

Cersei contemplated going to yell at Varys again, but her heart wasn't in it. 

A strange cat, all tawny but for its paws, tail, face, and ears, with eyes as blue as sapphires, had taken to being seen about the castle. It was like no cat anyone had ever seen, long and lanky like some sort of fey, and seemed to be in Tommen's lap. 

Cersei hated it. She didn't like its face, it had a strange, wicked face, with a wicked, horrid bray of a miaow. Yet it was always gentle with Tommen, even when the other cats were not. Tommen named it Mask.

Worse than this, of course, was the fact that the Queen had taken to Tommen, and Lady Sansa and Ser Willas were kind to him. He came back to his mother every night, escorted by the cat, and with some new bit of learning to share, about animals—his first love, gentle boy he was. First it was simply about cats—that their purrs healed, that they always landed on their feet, that Mask was a special cat from a far away place called Siam, and was a Siamese; but then it became _Mummy, did you know there is an animal with no brain or heart at all, yet it lives? It's called a sea-jelly!_ and _Mummy, there's special flies that glow like stars, they're called fireflies!_ and on and on. 

Each one was like another needle pricking Cersei's flesh. Or no, not a needle — a rose thorn. The crippled Tyrell was mad for animals, everyone knew it; Petyr Baelish, who was still sulking about on the periphery of court despite holding no office, had been heard to remark that he doubted Ser Willas knew what to do with his wife, now he had her. It had to be Willas who was filling Tommen's head with all this nonsense. 

Would they take _everything_ from her? Joff was dead, his murderers gone unpunished (and there, again, was Willas Tyrell). Myrcella was caught in Martell coils, packed off to a marriage the same way Cersei herself had been. Jaime, though he had returned from the riverlands, seemed to have lost all his ardor for her along with his sword hand. And now she did not even have a place in the heart of her only living son.

She had thought about getting him a new kitten, but none of the castle mousers had littered, and anyway she had never been fond of even ordinary cats. Septa Saranella had told her a story once about cats being tiny tame lions, and she had always thought it was deeply unfair to the lions. That was what Robert had wanted, a tiny tame wife, which at least proved for certain he had known nothing of his supposed beloved, Lyanna Stark.

At least Tommen seemed happy, and at least the things that brought him happiness caused less grief than had Joff's. Still, it hurt no less every time a Tyrell name fell from his lips. 

A note appeared on her pillow, one night as she came to bed; it was written in a strange hand.

_Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die._

_Someone told me that once, and it was hard to take, resentment being such a comfort; but tis true, and once I let go, I realised that I could make my future better than my past. Tomorrow is a new day, a blank slate—what will you write upon it, Cersei? A happy day, or yet another bad one?_

_Think on it._

At first Cersei had crumpled it up and flung it at the fire, but the wine had fouled her aim, and it only bounced off the edge of the hearth and fell to the floor. The next morning, grimacing at the pain of the light and the sickness that constantly dogged her, she read it again. 

It came to her that she had no comfort, other than resentment. And perhaps wine, but that was less a comfort than a disagreeable companion, unpleasant but necessary. She scarcely even noticed its savour anymore, or the difference between a riverlands red and a Lyseni white (she refused to touch anything from Dorne or the Arbor). She drank because it was better than not drinking. 

The worst part of it all was that she had caught Tyrion looking at her with something like pity, as though he knew what it was like.

What else could she do, though? With Jaime as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Casterly Rock had passed to Tyrion ( _Tyrion!_ ), and even if she could have prised it out of his greedy fingers, the thought of petitioning the queen for what ought to have been rightfully hers in the first place made her ill. 

She was lonely, but she didn't want to marry, not even now when she could, at last, have chosen for herself. 

She wanted nothing to do with any of it. Neither King's Landing nor Lannisport were hers anymore. The letter was wrong — she had nothing to write. 

One afternoon, her servant brought her a Dornish wine by mistake, and though she expected to fly into a rage, was perhaps even anticipating it with pleasure, it instead made her think. Myrcella was in Dorne, but she had been writing letters home since her arrival. Myrcella might still love her. And away from the Tyrells, Tommen might remember. 

And in Dorne, women were counted equal to men. Had she not said that enough, with envy on her tongue? It was the only reason she might have considered marrying Oberyn Martell, as her father had had the temerity to suggest once Rhaegar and Robert both were gone. But even with the Red Viper now spoken for, in Dorne she need not marry at all to have power. Certainly she would find little welcome in Sunspear, but Dorne was larger than its capital. She would just need to… 

No. She didn't need to ask _anyone._ She needed no one's permission. The same loss of status that had made her feel trapped now made her free. 

They would look for her, and she would be gone. 

The cat came to see her and Tommen off, and as Tommen cried out for him, reaching with little fingers, the cat turned with a glitter of magic into a lion with a golden mane, who gazed at them both, and bowed his heavy head in blessing, watching over them as they left the walls of the city behind them. 

*I am not a _tame_ lion, young Tommen. I have taught you enough. Go now, and remember to keep loving all living things, as I have taught you. If you do that, I will always be with you—in every spider, in every little bird, in every little fish and frog.*

Tommen was quiet, at that, in awe. Fuchsia turned his gaze to Cersei, and said nothing. He felt like he didn't need to. 

Cersei had looked into a lion's eyes before, at the menagerie in Lannisport, but this was different. Where there had been anger and incomprehension and harried wildness, here there was only calm and understanding. _They say magic came back to the world when the dragons hatched in the east._ (Cersei had felt only irritation when she had first heard that news; if Robert's assassin had been at all effectual, it would never have been a problem.) Was it magic, or the will of the gods, or were those one and the same?

Still, she looked, and felt a blow to her heart. Tommen had been protected, while she had fumed to herself and done nothing except appoint a food taster and triple his guard, so that _she_ felt better. His babbling at her — he was trying to stay with her, when she had grown distant and angry. When had she locked herself in her own cage? Robert's death had felt like her only victory. 

Something hard and painful lodged itself in her throat. She looked away, out to the harbour, where the ship waited to take them down the narrow sea. When she looked back, the lion had vanished. 

A lion, and not a lioness. Was that meant to represent Tommen, grown to manhood? Did that mean she was doing the best thing for him? 

Cersei hoped so, because she was starting to realise that before this, she never had. 


	7. Chapter 7

Margaery had been in communication with her mother, of course; all of them received letters from Lady Alerie regularly, and sent them. In the Reach, spending the morning in correspondence, before breakfast, was quite normal.

The Royal Wedding took a lot of preparation—the dress, in gold-shot green taffeta silk, the golden lace veil—and the shoes, which were sent by Margaery's mother, and made Margaery as tall as Oberyn. Fuchsia offered to do her makeup, and so her face and chest glittered with gold, her face shimmering when the sunlight from the Sept windows caught it.

She was beautiful, and she was across the altar from him, her hazel eyes golden with a starburst of green at the centre, large and enchanting, lashes seeming darker and longer than Oberyn remembered, lips shining. She smelled of something sweet and faint when he kissed her; but the kiss was stunning—she pulled him in, knowing exactly how to kiss, no shy bride. She was as passionate, he realised, as he was; a perfect match, perhaps.

Margaery knew there was no perhaps about it; she may not have been weeping and wailing about it, but she had her own disappointment at the fate of a queen to never marry someone she wanted. Yet now, she got her fairy tale ending, having the famed Oberyn Martell—a prince! A Dornish prince all for her own! She knew he was insatiable, wandering; but she had lots of training from her mother in how to domesticate a man... she kissed him, letting him have a taste of her passion, but only a taste. When they parted, she looked at him, hoping she'd left him breathless and wanting. 

He looked right back, dark eyes gone darker yet with desire, her lip-paint smudged faintly on his own mouth, and said, 'Perhaps once more, so the gods know there is no mistake?' 

She laughed, and took his hand, pulling him down the aisle and out into the crowd of waiting smallfolk, who cheered. It was Margaery that had insisted on a feast for the smallfolk of King's Landing. The Reach was rich enough to share, and it was Southern custom to give gifts on a wedding day, rather than receive them. 

Oberyn had never thought he would be cheered in King's Landing, but it seemed everyone was quite taken with the idea of a King-Consort, especially one so notorious. Margaery, too, was already beloved by the people, and this only cemented it all the more thoroughly — among other things, the seventy-seven courses at Joffrey's wedding had not gone over well with those among the commons who had heard of it. No one seemed to particularly mourn the end of the brief Baratheon dynasty; already the city was bedecked in green and gold and red, roses and suns and spears. 

People waved to him, and shouted, and called him king, and amidst the joy and brightness he found he had to close his eyes a moment. _Did they ever do this for you, Elia? Would they have cheered for you like this, if you had become queen?_

Doran, of course, could not come, but had sent an envoy with his congratulations and an unusual gift — a little orange tree in a beautifully patterned pot of fired clay, and instructions on how best to keep it alive in the crownlands' less forgiving climate. If it worked, they would have Dornish blood oranges of their own, not overripe, battered and bruised from spending weeks in the hold of a ship. But it would take care and attention, in the same way as did a good marriage.

Oberyn could not have said, later, what had been served at the feast; he thought only of Margaery's laughter. 

She kissed him often, but more, she sparkled when the sun hit her full, with violet and gold, and everyone said how pretty she was. She took a goblet of dark red glass, and Oberyn saw her wipe the paint off it discreetly with every sip. It was the same shade as her lips, simply glittering with rosy copper. 

She stood, after the feast had been going on, and everyone quieted. 'I would like to thank all of King's Landing's smallfolk, especially all of those who helped to make this wonderful feast possible.' She raised her glass. 'Vivat!' 

The answering cheer was hearty and loud. 

Eventually, it was time for them to retire; Margaery only waited so long as it was proper—and no longer. She got up, and teased Oberyn with her secret little lopsided smile, eyes sparkling. 

'Well, husband,' she said, 'I think we should retire for the night.' 

He was standing before she got to "retire," offering his hand. 'Then we shall, wife.' His heart was pounding with excitement, at the beat it only took when he was about to bed a new lover, all his natural curiosity awoken. 

'Aye,' someone shouted, 'go and make the next queen! How many daughters will that be, now?' 

Oberyn laughed as this sparked a lively argument. Especially lively considering Margaery was Mace's only daughter, whereas Oberyn had _only_ daughters. 

\- - - 

Margaery was playful and eager, bare almost before Oberyn turned around, leaping on him and giggling, kissing him and pulling him down, her hands diving beneath his Dornish layers. 'Come on, let's see you!' she laughed—but it wasn't mocking, it was merry. 

He was laughing too, trying to find the room to undo his belt. 'So that you can wrestle me? I'll send for oil.' Another kiss, and he was left marveling that a chance conversation in a pillow house could have led to him being here. Or perhaps it had not been chance at all… 

At last she let him undress, and he turned slowly, arms half-spread, inviting her to look her fill. His old scars gleamed in the firelight. 

She stood back, and he saw that she was not surprised—and she shouldn't be, she'd been married to Renly Baratheon before, she'd seen him naked, surely. 

Margaery couldn't believe her luck, really. Renly had been pretty, but he hadn't been interested—and, anyway, Margaery preferred southern boys, with their skin kissed by freckles or gilded by the sun outright. Oberyn's nipples looked larger than she'd ever seen on a man, but then again he had many lovers, and they looked _delicious,_ she could quite imagine giving in to temptation to suck them... 

His cock was _beautiful,_ clean and in a nest of black curls shot through with silver, just like his long hair and his neat little Dornish beard. It arched, slightly to one side, and Margaery sighed, seeing how hard it was, rising even more as he looked at her. It was nice to _know_ she was attractive, to her husband. Her reputation was for beauty, but she had never been with a man who appreciated it—her soft, high breasts, which would grow less high sooner due to their size, and her wide hips, inherited from her mother. She already had a softness to her thighs and apron, but that was because of all the fine food in the Reach. Even Loras had softness over his muscles, from that. 

She crossed the distance between them, and brushed fingertips over his cock, taking it in her hand as he looked up at him. 'Mine,' she said, daring him to disagree. 

His teeth found his lower lip, and he made a soft noise in his throat that was anything but protest. 'Yours. Though I do wonder what that means...' 

He knew she wouldn't blush and shrink from telling him what she wanted, but more, he was worried about the prospect of cleaving to her and her alone. It mattered less for strangers he might encounter than for two people in particular — one of course being Ellaria, but the other, Willas. Married they both might be, but Oberyn didn't want their meeting in the Lark's Nest to be the only time they had ever coupled. 

But now was not the time to think of that. 

'It means,' she said, 'you lay with _no one_ without my consent.' She squeezed, not unpleasantly. 'And I show you the same courtesy,' she added. 'Is that clear?' she said, in a firmer tone. 

Oberyn was not the only one with lovers—one of course being Mikel, her stable hand, a half-Dornish bastard; Margaery little meant to give him up.

But now was not the time to think of that.

'Perfectly.' He knew she would be able to hear his relief. What he did not know was anything at all about the construction of the royal apartments. Could the crowd gathered outside hear that arrangement, to carry the tale? He did not fancy having to fend off accusations that he was trying to outdo Aegon the Unworthy, nor that he had become a hapless cuckold. It would be easier if everyone knew from the start. Perhaps they could make some kind of proclamation? 'That will suit me well.' 

'Yes, and me,' she said, 'now,' she said, throwing herself on the bed with a laugh at the creaking of ropes. 'Come and plow my fields, you naughty snake.' She spread her legs, holding the backs of her thighs with her hands. He could see how wet she already was, shining in the firelight, her brown curls darkened with it. 'I've been toying with myself all day,' she said, wicked smile in her words. 'It's very easy, my clit is so _very_ big...' 

She'd learnt the word from Fuchsia, who had given her a lesson while he'd done her "makeup". It was nice to be able to speak about herself the way men spoke of themselves. 

He caught his breath as the rich smell of her reached him. 'Thinking of me?' He climbed up after her, holding himself poised over her, admiring — and not disputing the naughtiness, either, for he kept the head of his cock only lightly nudging between her folds, awaiting even the slightest push forward. Awaiting her order.

He could well guess what was meant by the odd word, that part which the Lyseni called the goddess' pearl, and the rest of the Free Cities “the little bride.” Or not so little, as the case might be. 

'Maybe,' Margaery teased, and wiggled. 'Are you going to tease me all night, viper? I'm afraid it won't work, I can finish myself...' 

She was _not_ bluffing—Margaery, like Loras, liked to be watched. Jaime and Cersei may have crossed a line by actually _touching_ one another, but Loras and Margaery did plenty of _watching._

He kissed her forehead, the only way he could think of to say that he had fallen in love a little more with her for that.

Well. Perhaps not the _only_ way.

Oberyn slid into her in one long movement, slow and smooth, and groaned aloud at the feeling of it. He was not the kind of man to be quiet in bed; he talked and laughed and always made his pleasure known. 'I would like to watch that sometime,' he said. 'Perhaps when I am worn out from a long day of being king. Or a long night of being worn out by you.' 

Margaery gasped, sighing at the feeling of something made of flesh and blood rather than ivory or glass inside her, at last. Her head she had thrown back as he entered, biting her lip; now she tipped it to look at her husband. ‘More,’ she demanded, beaming at him, unable to hide how happy she was. 

He smiled to see her delight, rolling his hips, drawing back every now and then to enjoy the sensation of sheathing himself to the hilt again. 'As much as you want,' he said softly, and it was the truth. He didn't like it if his passion too far outstripped his lovers', or if they held back from expressing their desires. And he had _years_ with Margaery ahead of him, if the gods were good, years to learn each other and explore. With her wrapped around him, all that Fuchsia had said seemed possible. He could govern a realm at her side. 

'That's what I like to hear,' she said, smiling, and moving her hips with him, feeling like he was scratching that deep-inside itch, the one that was-wasn't at the base of her ribs, at the back of her throat... she reached down when she couldn't stand it anymore, and parted her curls, stroking at her clit, desperate to come. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes... yes, yes, right there, _right there. Don't you dare stop!'_ and then she was screaming, but it was no helpless wail—it was the kind of scream before charging across the battlefield, assertive, aggressive.

Queenly.

It drowned out the pleased noise he made on hearing it, and he didn't mind at all. Of course, he didn't mind much of anything just then. He held out a few moments more, the muscles in his thighs and back gone taut with the effort, but at last spent himself as she was still shuddering, watching her face soften into contentment. That was always, he thought, when someone looked the most beautiful.

He leaned down to kiss her free hand, which had been clutching white-knuckled at the bedclothes, and was only now loosening its grasp. 'May I give you another?' 

She giggled, her head lolling lazily as she came down. 'Run your hands along my thighs, and my sides,' she ordered, fairly purring when he obeyed. 'Mmmmmgood boy,' she murmured, thrilling that this was the first she would say it to _her_ husband. 

As to the question, she didn't answer until she was good and done being petted like the cat she was. 

He was happy enough just to sit there, still within her, loving the feel of her skin under his hands. 'Do you know,' he said, 'I only ever get called that in the bedchamber? And every time, it still surprises me.' 

She laughed, and it was husky and velvety and _wonderful._ 'You'll find Tyrell women call their men that all the time,' she purred. 'Now, boy, fetch me something cool to drink, I need refreshment before I saddle up my Dornish sandsteed...' Her eyes had not stopped sparkling with laughter, and she teased him now with relish. 

'They have such saddles, in Lys,' Oberyn said, not missing a beat as he slipped out of her and pushed back off the bed, going to the table and investigating its contents. 'Is it water you'd like, or wine?' He had not intended to drink any water in King's Landing that had not been boiled to within an inch of its life, but Maegor's Holdfast had its own well, which was not situated so that it could be easily befouled. It had been poison the king feared, not his own subjects shitting in his drinking water, but Oberyn was relieved to have it nonetheless.

The Tyrells were similarly Southern, and there was a copper kettle on the hearth—but Margaery had requested something cool, and there was a sweet Rhoynish on the windowsill, cool and perfect refreshment. Two glasses were waiting, of fine make. Margaery was sitting up, legs crossed to keep his seed within her as she watched him, smirking as he discovered she'd been prepared—and had a perfect view of his assets in the meantime. 

Looking over his shoulder, he rolled his eyes, the gesture already fond, and he lifted the decanter to catch the scent of the wine with pleasure. Rhoynish wine made in the old style was a rare treat, made from the pale grapes that had once wound their vines about the pillars of Chroyane. Some seeds had made the journey with Nymeria on her ten thousand ships, and though it was said they would never taste quite the same, their wine was still prized, by the orphans of the Greenblood most of all. 

Oberyn appreciated the gesture, even as he enjoyed Margaery's appreciation of him. He came back with the brimming glasses and sat beside her. 'Here you are, my queen.' 

'Thank you, my king,' she said, with the same giddy playfulness, taking the glass and raising it to him. 'To our reign,' she said. 'To our dragon, to our future children, to our marriage,' she ended, with a genuine smile of pleasure. 'May we have all the years the gods ever grant together.' 

He drank deep, but blinked at her over the rim of the glass when he lowered it. 'When did we get a dragon? I'd have thought I would notice.' 

Margaery swallowed, setting the glass down. 'Oh, didn't I say?' she said, knowing very well she hadn't. 'How remiss of me, my dear. Well, it was a secret, but there are no secrets between the queen and her king—the wizard, as he calls himself. He can change his skin as he pleases, and means to practise his craft until he can turn into a dragon. He is scheduled to pledge his oath to us tomorrow morning, with the others. I'm creating a seat for him on our small council.' 

Fuchsia had been... reluctant at first, but she had worked him over, and he had finally seen the logic of it, submitting to her. It hadn't taken as long as she'd thought. 

Oberyn was glad he had not taken another drink of wine, for he would surely have choked, or sprayed it all over his bride and their bed. 'A wizard, is it? Well, for all he has done, he may call himself whatever he likes.' He wondered what Margaery had said or done that had persuaded Fuchsia to stay; he well remembered the way the whore's voice had trembled, saying, _I need to live in the south._ Well, if he could not go himself, a southern queen and king were the next best thing, were they not?

He tilted his head at Margaery. 'Did he tell you about Willas?' 

Margaery raised a brow. 'What about Willas, my dear?' she asked, and made clear with her tone that he'd best get to telling her all about Willas, and sharpish. It was a tone she'd learned from her mother _and_ grandmother.

He very quickly obeyed, beginning with encountering Willas outside the Lark's Nest, and going on to explain the first inkling he had had of Fuschia's powers ('did you not wonder how Willas got it into his head to fight the Mountain?'). He had to quote Fuschia precisely on the part about his not wearing a helmet, as it had settled itself very firmly in his mind. 

Margaery listened, and drained her cup, and refilled it—watering it, so that she might make it last through the tale. She refilled his glass as well, so he didn't have to stop talking, and her eyes were as keen as a cat's on the hunt. 

'I am _definitely_ keeping him on our small council, then,' she said, when he finished. 'That was a wiser decision than I first thought.' 

'Is it a great scandal if the king and queen take their trusted advisor to bed?' Oberyn wondered, once he had taken some more wine. 'It seems the least we can do to thank him.' Especially if it did turn out that he could learn the trick of shapeshifting after all. He thought back on what Fuchsia had said. He'd never been accused of lacking imagination — indeed, quite the contrary. 

She laughed. 'I have to admit, I'd no idea he was a whore...' She sobered a moment, and said, instead, 'No. Something tells me he would be wounded if we asked, now. Give it time.' 

Margaery wondered what sort of dragon Fuchsia would be. He'd turned into all manner of strange beasts—and birds, including birds bigger than birds had any right being, and beasts stranger than even unicorns. He was practising, he said—turning into this part, or that part. But he'd put all his favourites together to make a dragon, he promised—and more. What a dragon she would have! 


	8. Chapter 8

Size was the final thing Fuchsia needed to perfect—but he'd practised with shrinking well enough, and had turned into a horse, which was quite a large animal. He knew enough to manage. 

He'd had to wait until the dew burned off to climb up on the roof, but he'd had a roof picked out, and had borrowed-without-permission some supplies that made climbing a little safer, like rope. He'd practised emergency shifting until he was sure he wasn't going to hit the ground, should he fall, and sat for a while, calming down enough from the climb to concentrate. He had to be near the ramparts, in order to use the curtain wall as a support for his weight; however, he had to be far enough away that his new size wouldn't press painfully into the space he chose. As such, he felt rather exposed, and the sea wind battered at him.

He didn't do it animorphs-style, because he didn't have to. He just called to mind the animal he needed to be, called to mind everything he knew about how they worked, how they felt, what they thought, and closed his eyes, and when he opened them... 

The guards panicked. Fuchsia hadn't warned anybody, he'd wanted it to be a surprise—but he'd also chosen a colour of dragon on purpose, putting roses in the markings of his wings, red roses on gold wings. He sat with more confidence, feeling the complete compassion and surety of a gold dragon's size and strength. He feared nothing. Therefore, he loved everything. He turned his head, turning kind eyes on Jaime Lannister, who had bravely shot at him. 

'There is no need for that, I am here to serve Queen Margaery and King Oberyn.'

His voice was low and grandfatherly, which surprised him, but also didn't. He had imagined everything Good and Kind, and so it had been made that way. There was a great therapy in shapeshifting, Fuchsia thought—in becoming other creatures, that were and were not, did not have to be, yourself. 

Jaime, slow to reload the crossbow with his golden hand, stopped and stared. Dragons were not supposed to talk, or if they were, they were probably supposed to do it in High Valyrian. They were also supposed to have two legs, the forelegs having become wings — Tyrion had regaled him with that and other knowledge often enough when they were growing up, until he'd been concerned his brother was going to turn into another Aerion Brightflame. This one had retained all four, and seemed supremely unconcerned about it. 

It also had _frills_ , and wings like great sails through which the light shone warmly, rippling all down its immense length. For all that it was the size of the Black Dread or larger (Jaime was guessing, from hazy memories of when Balerion's skull had stood in the throne room), it looked less frightening than when its shadow had first fallen over him. Its jaws seemed to have a permanent smile about them, like a lizard-lion's, but this was a _real_ smile, gentle and without hunger. The smile of something that thought. 

Jaime still had to swallow against a mouth gone dry as bone. 'Do you mean to bend the knee?' 

'Oh, well, I'm not certain what my knees bending has to do with it,' Fuchsia said, creating the character as he went along. He faced the wind, and felt, in his wings, that it would carry him aloft, if he but shifted them a little. So he did, and let the wind fill his sails, and took wing, floating as easily as a kite—easier, in fact. He swam through the air more than he flew, for he was a creature of the Air and of Light, and weighed nearly nothing unless he wanted to. 

He wheeled, and a beautiful cry filled the air—it was like the cry of a loon, but lower and sweeter, with all the musicality of a thinking being. The dragon—he wasn't Fuchsia anymore, he was someone _else_ , someone old and wise and kind—landed ever-so-gently at the gate, and let the smallfolk have a look at him, his tail fully double the size of his body, held stiff and aloft, the sails on it making a kind of glimmering canopy over the long stretch of street that led up the hill. Lifting one fore-claw daintily, he knocked politely on the great doors.

The guards looked at each other. Having been built at the command of dragonriders, the outer yard of the Red Keep would accommodate him, if just barely. Accommodating dragons was entrenched rather deeply in the King's Landing psyche.

Besides which, a low murmur was rising from the crowds below. This was a new century, a new age, and this strange, magnificent dragon was no doubt a sign of that. Turning it away, or worse, attacking it again (this time with something that had been known to work, like a scorpion), could spell disaster. 

_Besides_ besides which, it had knocked. 

The doors opened. 

The dragon came in, with light steps, nothing like the thundering of legend, and moved with not a snake's smoothness, but a cat's. He walked like a great heron, with gravitas, and royal patience. He looked like a King of Dragons, if ever there was one—not merely a monstrous beast, but a _being._

'Good morning,' he greeted cheerfully. 'Is it too early to receive a royal audience?' 

'Not for you, I imagine,' one of the guards said, after swallowing hard. His dark face was still somewhat ashen; all that grace and beauty could not entirely convince one's mind to ignore the teeth. Turning away to address his fellows didn't really help. 'Someone go and find the first Ki— Queensguard knight you see. Tell them....' He gestured at the dragon. 'Tell them.' 

This was done, and before long the queen and king themselves stepped out of the castle, with an escort of no less than four of the Queensguard, their helms off and their swords sheathed but their eyes watchful. Tallest among them was Brienne of Tarth, who had sworn herself to Margaery on the condition the crown aid her in her search for Arya Stark, as neither Sansa's safety nor Lady Catelyn's death could persuade her to lay the oath aside entire. (Ser Loras had protested, but Brienne had sworn before gods and men that she was innocent of Renly's murder, and what was more, Oberyn had quietly asked Fuchsia about it.) 

Margaery had had a new crown made, of golden roses, and Oberyn wore a gold circlet in the shape of a snake biting its own tail, which he was rather pleased with. 

’Good morning,' said the dragon, again.

'Good morning,' Margaery knew well who this was, but was loath to reveal the secret. 

'I'm called Gwydion,' he said. 'I thought perhaps it was time.' Time for what, he didn't say—he didn't really need to, if he was operating under the idea that he, being wise and old, knew a great many things, about what was, and what had been, and what would be. 

'Perhaps it is,' Margaery said, playing along. 'Won't you come inside, Lord Gwydion, and have something warm to drink?' 

'Oh, yes, please,' Gwydion said, smiling in his very blue eyes, and following her. 'Perhaps you can explain to me what bending knees has to do with aiding the rightful King and Queen.' 

'Nothing at all,' said Oberyn, 'only some people cannot conceive of being allies without either ruling or submitting. The Kingslayer will get used to it eventually.' He had considered feigning shock and fear, but felt it would only be tedious. Better for the king to take such things in stride. And the wonderment in his eyes was entirely real, as he beheld the magic that was a living, breathing dragon. 

(But he was, privately, a little disappointed that Fuchsia had chosen not to go with the feathers.) 

'Oh, well, I'm too old to think there are only two sides to anything, any longer,' Gwydion answered, following them inside. He did not wantonly destroy any columns, but wound around them with the grace of a cat, and settled in the space between the two lower tables, settling down and tucking his feet beneath himself in a tidy, feline manner—though his tail did not curl, held up and seeming to only move up and down, rather like a great bird's. It caused a bit of a problem, in that it stuck out the doors to the Great Hall, and so the doors were obliged to stay open. 

None of the dragons of Aegon's era had been so _long_ —at least, not without the ability to curl up. 

Oberyn could not stop smiling, looking at that. He had scarcely been king for a fortnight, and now _this_ was happening. It was all the better for having anticipated it since that day he had left the Lark's Nest. 'Is it the dragons in Slaver's Bay that concern you, Prince Gwydion? You will forgive the address, I hope — I know not what to call you.' It was hard not to end it on a laugh; Oberyn felt giddy, suffused with an excitement that reminded him of nothing so much as boyhood games, playing in the Water Gardens or at Sandstone, making up great heroes and battles without the slightest knowledge of what would happen next. 

'I haven't a human title, come to that. In Draconic, of course, I would be... oh, now, let me think... something along the lines of Hhh'iless'hi—but one cannot expect humans to pronounce that, it requires more than one voice box, and (insofar as I understand) humans have only the one, do you not?' 

'As far as I am aware,' Margaery said, much to the surprise of Maester Pycelle, and the other maesters (who had, of course, hurried to see the dragon as fast as old men could hurry).

'Well, there you are, then,' Gwydion said. 'You must call me Gwydion, for I am Gwydion, and Gwydion means me.' 

Pycelle worked his mouth, his uneven beard trembling. Old as he was, Lord Tywin's death seemed to have aged him further, pared him down to little more than bones. He seemed to be waiting with bated breath for the queen to dismiss him, but he had not the courage to step down himself, and so he remained, pale and querulous, avoiding Tyrion like the plague. 'Where did you come from?' 

'My mother, of course,' Gwydion said. 'Or do you mean, where is it I was born? Or do you mean, where is it that I now reside? Or do you merely mean I arrived very suddenly, and you are expressing wonder at my speed?' 

He folded his forepaws, and waited for the reply, canting his head quizzically, like a bird, fixing Pycelle with a curious gaze, the pupil of his very blue eye shrinking visibly in interest. 

'Let us say all of them,' said Tyrion, walking in briskly. 'Forgive my lateness, the Tower of the Hand is further away than I remember it being.' He came near Gwydion's head and bowed. 'We are honoured by your presence.' 

Inwardly, he was amazed he could speak at all. He was _talking to a dragon_ , a dragon like none he had ever seen described nor drawn. When he had first come to court, he had straight away asked to be taken to the cellar where Robert had put the dragon skulls — and talked to them, too, venting old wishes and frustrations to the inert bone. He had stayed so long that Cersei had claimed she thought herself finally rid of him, and suggested he live down there. 

Now he was Hand of the Queen, and there was a dragon in the great hall. 

Gwydion laughed, and it was a musical, pleasant thing. 'A Hand is never late, nor is he early; he arrives precisely when he means to,' he said, knowingly.

'I am told by Ser Jaime—the one who shot at you, for which I apologise—that you came here to serve the crown, is that so?' Margaery asked, politely, as a servant came in rolling a cask of wine, which the dragon immediately took to, removing the top of the barrel with ease and using the entire thing like it were a cup. 

'It is,' Gwydion said. 'I have been waiting a very long time for a King and Queen that were Just.' 

He knew damn well what that would mean, to everyone listening—dragons were seen as Prophets, as speakers of unquestioned Truths. Well, dragons were speaking for themselves, now. 

'And now that you have found them,' said Oberyn, 'what do you mean to do? It is all very well to say you wish to serve the crown, and as one of those crowns, I am very grateful, but most dragons have done that by breathing fire on things.' 

'Making my golden brother even more of a fool,' Tyrion said under his breath. Jaime had always loved grand gestures — why else would he have sat himself on the Iron Throne with Aerys' corpse at his feet? — but a crossbow bolt at a _dragon?_ The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was either supposed to be above such things, or it was exactly that kind of thoughtless bravery that the position demanded. Tyrion wasn't sure. 

'Fire? Fire?' blustered the dragon. 'My dear boy, do I _look_ like a red dragon? Do you see any red scale upon my person?' He was working into a fine temper. 

'No, my lord,' Margaery said, keeping her voice even. 

'I should say _not_ , madam! Hmph! Gold dragons don't breathe _fire.'_

'What is it that gold dragons breathe, my lord? Forgive us, we have only met red dragons.'

'You poor creatures. Well, _gold_ dragons, of course, put fires out.' And he nodded primly. 

Oberyn looked about to say something else, but succumbed to a coughing fit. 

'Even our golden dragons breathed fire, when we had them,' Tyrion said. 'I suppose they were merely a golden kind of a red dragon, as one might have a bay or a black or dapple horse.' He was genuinely excited at the thought, even as he considered the fact that Gwydion had not answered any of the questions put to him, and dragons did not need to have fire to be dangerous. What else could he say? If he offended Gwydion too grievously, the dragon might even _leave_ , and Tyrion did not think he could bear the weight of that. 

'Hmph, preposterous!' Gwydion said. 'Did they look like me? I think _not! Red_ dragons have _wings_. Gold dragons, as you can see' — he shifted his sails — 'have _sails._ ' 

'You are... creatures of water, then?' Maester Pycelle asked, trying to make sense of this... this very un-dragon-like dragon. Dragons didn't talk. Dragons didn't care about Justice. Dragons didn't quaff wine like seasoned warriors, and politely ask the servants for another cask. 

'Water? Pah! Am I _blue_ , sir? We are creatures of _goodness_. Now,’ he said, ‘what sort of thing might you need a dragon for, madam?’ he asked Margaery, who hid a laugh at his bluster. She was reminded of an old grandfather, who made much of how grumpy he was, yet was a true and gentle knight, underneath. 

‘It depends on whether you are a warrior or a sage, Gwydion.’

‘Oh, I prefer sage,’ said the dragon.

‘Perhaps you might go to Slaver’s Bay, then,’ she said, thoughtfully, ‘and see what you can see.’ She glanced at Oberyn. ‘What are your thoughts, my love?’ 

Oberyn had been surprised how quickly Margaery had taken to calling him that, though he appreciated it, and addressed her in kind. He did love her, it was just a very new love, and a different one. 'That was the first thing that came to my mind as well,' he said. 'Of the five kings that began this war, four are dead, and though we have yet to see what the remaining one has made of it, he troubles me less than Daenerys Targaryen.' 

The Iron Islands would, of course, soon be choosing another king, but they could be independent, for all Oberyn cared. In fact, he was considering that as a proposal: cease reaving, and be left to rule themselves, so long as they kept to trading instead of looting and killing. As for Stannis and his sorcery, the last Baratheon brother had disappeared into the North, going, it was said, to the very Wall itself. Clearly something was happening there that was more important than his claim to the throne. 

‘Your Graces, if I may suggest a more... local mission?’ Lord Tyrion was unsure of the reception, but sure enough that he did not act the sycophant. 

Queen Margaery turned her head to him, and said, kindly, ‘I would be glad to hear your counsel, my lord Tyrion.’ 

‘The Wall seems to be of interest to many, of late—and, having visited there, I find myself wanting some information as to what is happening beyond it.’ He didn’t mention White Walkers—he had a feeling it as yet another thing Fuchsia knew.

‘I could do such a thing this very day,’ Gwydion said. ‘Whereas the journey to Slaver’s Bay may take...’ he huffed a bit, thoughtfully, ‘with good wind? Perhaps a month there and another back, not accounting for storms.’ 

'Well, then, if the cold will not trouble you, go and see what may be seen,' said Oberyn, with an easy shrug. 'A day or two from King's Landing to the Wall, imagine! We would be fools to refuse. In the meantime, perhaps Daenerys will be content to play with her Ghiscari cities.' He didn't add that Queen Alysanne had flown her dragon to the Wall, and if it was only a day's trip... 

But he was king now, and that probably meant he needed to stay in the royal seat for longer than a month at a time. 

A dragon's smile was usually extremely, disturbingly pleasant—and usually something one saw from the perspective of being on a serving platter on the dragon's table; but _this_ smile was the twinkle-eyed smile of so many blue-eyed old men none of these people knew. It was Santa's smile, Dumbledore's smile, The Ghost Of Christmas Present's smile, Merlin's smile. It was an Archetype that even Margaery was only noticing in a very rudimentary way. 

'As I said before, my dear lad,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Gold dragons _put out_ fires.' 


End file.
